Oddments
by TrivialQueen
Summary: Vignettes based around a table of 100 prompts. Multiple Characters, Pairings, and Points of View. Including, but not limited to: TomKat, Cromwell, Anne Boleyn, Wolsey/ Joan Larke, etc. Full explanation inside. Complete.
1. 0 General Notes

Oddments

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.

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General Notes

I have used this same prompt table on another fandom and another story collection – _Snippets_ over in the _Leverage_ category. There I am doing a strict 100 word drabble series, it's a real ball to work with because A - I feel like I get something accomplished and B - the pieces don't have to fit together so I get to write scenes I want without continuity worries. Not to mention they are a great exercise in word economy, style variance, and point of view. It's also gotten some great feed back; reviewers have seen stuff, connections I had completely missed.

I hope to use this little collection as practice for this fandom. I've loosened my word count constraints, but these will still be short (unlike this introduction), please critique me soundly, this is a learning process. I am, after all, a writer – in – progress.

The pairings/ characters I will be using are:

Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell: Elizabeth was Thomas's actual wife who died sometime in the 1520s historically, I hope to have a full length story about her done… sometime.  
Thomas Boleyn/ Katherine of Aragon: a very wicked idea courtesy of Doctor Madwoman  
Thomas Wolsey/ Joan Larke: a little known historic couple that I adore  
Thomas More/ Katherine of Aragon: Because, well duh.  
Eustace Chapuys/ Margaret More Roper: Again, thanks Doctor Madwoman

There will also be some miscellaneous prompts, including a plot bunny (once _again_ thank you Doctor Madwoman) about a League of Extraordinary Gentlewomen, this too I hope becomes a story in its own right, until then the bunny will have to be satisfied with bits.

Alright, I've kept you long enough – on with the song.


	2. 1 Beginning

Oddments

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Note: This was written in England during a ten day family vacation in the summer of 2009. Garth is the son of a friend of my family's, he is finishing is Masters of Philosophy at Cambridge; he is a member of Saint Edmunds College.

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Prompt #1: The Beginning

"The college is closed to the general public – hope you don't have any moral objections to being family." Tall and thin Garth would have to be adopted to fit with us, but that is a non issue so long as we don't get caught. We head through the arched entrance to the grounds of Cambridge's Trinity College. We head down a graveled path lined by the tallest, straightest trees I've ever seen. Trinity was founded by Henry the Eighth, Garth tells us as, the building before us is older than my entire home country, the United States. Garth is a student at Cambridge and the son of one of my father's friends. He and my parents talk about what's going on back in Iowa, they talk about the weather, if I hear one more 'it's good to be the king' joke I might scream.

Except I hear nothing but Trevor Morris's opening credits. History is alive as we pass through the building and into the courtyard. A soprano is practicing some where near; statues look down at us as we cross along the columned porch. I can feel him. He is here. And then, through an ajar door – I see him.

Henry.

For a moment I am still. For a moment it's just me and him. For a moment it's another time.

_You think you know a story, but you only know how it ends. To get to the heart of the story, you have to go back to the beginning._

It's like a whisper in my ear.

"Cait," Garth calls, paused at the huge wooden door, looking back over his shoulder at me frozen in the hall. "Cait, come on."


	3. 2 Eyes

Oddments

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell  
Note: This was written in England during a ten day family vacation in the summer of 2009.

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Prompt #2: Eyes

It was not the words so much that hurt; they were just sentences – subject, verb, occasionally an adjective. It was her eyes. Her eyes as she said those things. There was no light in them, no life. And it was his fault. He was the cause of the disappointment that dulled her eyes as if blocking out the sun.

It was that look of sad distress that hurt him more than a cry of 'foul' ever could.


	4. 3 Hair

Oddments

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Boleyn/ Katherine of Aragon  
Note: This was written in England during a ten day family vacation in the summer of 2009.

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Prompt #3: Hair

Thomas Boleyn stood beside the fire and watched as his 'wife' prepared for bed. This was their first big test and he'd be damned if all his hard work would come falling down around his ears. He'd come too far.

The test was, in explanation, simple. Henry believed Katherine had chosen this life. He liked to think that his father - in - law and the Princess Dowager were happy. He'd given them one bedroom in order to facilitate this marital bliss. Henry couldn't know that _bliss_ couldn't be farther from the truth.

The low fire beside him dimly lit the room, Katherine's coal black hair shone by its light as she began to run a comb through the long locks. She first took quick strokes with the brush, through small sections of hair, her lovely, regal face wincing as the teeth found each snarl. But soon every knot was undone and she was able to pass the comb through her hair like water. It glistened like silk through her fingers.

He watched, mesmerized but the simple, intimate, suddenly erotic action. Thomas's silver brows knit together at his body's response. To recognize the eroticism of Katherine was one thing, but intimacy? His loins were to swell, not his heart. His heart was not to be involved. Intimacy bordered too close to venerability which was a slippery slope to caring. Which could not happen.

But as Boleyn watched the brush smooth Katherine's hair he watched his plans get more tangled.

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_Note II: I think it would behoove me to explain this little crack!pairing further; I believe it started in the Odd Couple Forum, but I'm not sure, I do know Doctor Madwoman mentioned it to me, following the general premise that Boleyn somehow forces Katherine to marry him so that she is out of the way and Henry is free to be with Anne and advance his family. And la – la this was born._


	5. 4 Hands

Oddments

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Eustace Chapuys/ Margaret More Roper  
Note: This was written in England during a ten day family vacation in the summer of 2009.

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Prompt #4: Hands

Her hands were like ovals; long, narrow, beautiful. Each finger was slender and pale with the grace of a thousand dancers. Her nails were clean and clear, trimmed short and round at the crown of each digit. They were cold to the touch and compared to his own hand as delicate as porcelain. Under his lips the back was as smooth as the prized material. He turned so they were side by side, her delicate left hand resting atop his right brick. Under hers his hand was large, square, and blunt. Ruff and as dark as Spanish cedar. He did not think himself so very tan but next to her that was the case. She was everything he was not.

He placed his left hand atop hers, covering it completely. He looked down into her pale English face, he would protect her – he would cover her, just as his hand covered hers.

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_Note II: This is actually a paring from a challenge, the gist of the challenge being: Margaret More Roper is widowed and Eustace Chapuys is there to pick up the pieces of her broken heart *wistful sigh*_


	6. 5 Lips

Oddments

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Boleyn/ Katherine of Aragon  
Note: This was written in England during a ten day family vacation in the summer of 2009.

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Prompt #5: Lips

Katherine licked her full lips, making them shine like a silken bow. It was a nervous gesture and Thomas Boleyn enjoyed every second of it. Both for the betrayal of emotions on the Princess Dowager's part and for the sudden lure the wetness of her pink tongue brought to her Spanish mouth. The Spanish mouth he would have saying anything he liked. It was only a matter of time. It was only a matter of time and he would be the victor. He knew it. He would win.

His own thin lips curled into a cruel smile at the thought. He looked down at the fallen Queen's mouth once more; smile curling even more. He would reap his victory in more ways than one.


	7. 6 Red

Oddments

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Eustace Chapuys/ Margaret More Roper  
Note: This was written in England during a ten day family vacation in the summer of 2009.

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Prompt #6: Red

"My mother and brother he will support." Margaret Roper nee More said, her beautiful faced torn between intense anger and intense sorrow. "But I am just a poor widow, and he cannot support every widowed mother!" she threw her hands up, springing to pace about the room. "I am young. I should marry again. How?" Her voice cracked and the anxious, angry tension left her, she collapsed like a wet rag. Eustace caught her on pure reflex and they sank to the floor. She crying in earnest, he doing his best to consol her.

"How?" she squeaked, "I am thirty. I have three children, no fortune, and no connections. Who could I marry? And how would I live – how would _my children_ live until then?" her last words were barely understandable. Not that Eustace Chapuys heard a word. He was eerily calm and overly tense, his nostrils flared and he saw nothing but red.

How dare he? How dare the King? Did he not care a thing for honor? Did he not see Margaret's gentle beauty? She was a flower – and the King, it seemed, was doing his best to tear her up. Chapuys wanted to tear him up.

He looked down at the beauty in his arms and the rage dissipated, the red faded. It was replaced by a new urge. Protect.


	8. 7 Orange

Oddments

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Wolsey/ Joan Larke  
Note: This was written in England during a ten day family vacation in the summer of 2009.

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Prompt #7: Orange

Peeled, natural slices pulled apart, an orange sat on the edge of his desk, its mate, unpeeled, round like the sun, beside it on the plate. For as long as nearly any servant could remember this was how it was. The Cardinal and his oranges. No one knew why, yet no one questioned it either. It simply was.

Two strong, capable, handsome fingers lifted a section to a thin moth in an automatic gesture; the brain already engaged in heavy thought as Cardinal Wolsey read the latest reports from Rome.

However, as soon as teeth spilled citric juice onto his waiting tongue he was stopped mid thought. Attention hijacked as a memory forced itself to the forefront of his mind.

"_Oranges." Joan said sitting up, her child swollen middle hampering the motion. Thomas rolled over and looked at the woman carrying their second child. He yawned._

"_What?" he felt her turn, the dim light from the fire making her a mere outline._

"_Oranges." When Joan carried Dorothy, their first born, she ate nothing but fish. She ate so much fish that he couldn't stand even the smell of the water animal by the time of the birth. That experience had not only ruined his Friday meal but also taught him that when his Joan craved he should jump. Which he did, although not as sprightly as the verb implied in the wee hours of the morning. _

"_Oranges." He mumbled, shuffling to the door, thick robe wrapped around him. "Oranges."_

_After searching the kitchen and waking more servants than they though necessary he returned to bed triumphant. _

"_Oranges!" he proclaimed, entering with a lone fruit. The dim light of the candle he carried in his other hand illuminated the broad smile that crept across the lovely face of the woman he had come to call, in his heart, his wife._


	9. 8 Yellow

Oddments

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None - Court  
Note: This was written in England during a ten day family vacation in the summer of 2009.

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Prompt #8: Yellow

Yellow – In Spain it is the color of morning. In England it means joy. For the court it was the color of confusion. The color of torn.

Katherine was dead. For many that meant that the true Queen of England was dead. A daughter of Spain. A loyal servant of God. Her passing deprived the world of a saintly and good influence. She was the very definition of a Queen.

And there were other who wore their yellow finery in celebration. The past was conquered once and for all. Anne Boleyn was the unquestioned Queen. Elizabeth's rightful place was assured – she and her brothers would be above the Bastard Mary. Brothers for Anne was pregnant. All was right in the world. All was yellow.


	10. 9 Green

Oddments

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Boleyn/ Katherine of Aragon

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Prompt #9: Green

"Thank you Thomas, you do not know how you warm my heart." Katherine said, adjusting her friend's collar and chain of office. She did not regret what she did to get back to court if it meant she could see Thomas More, his kind words of support pulled her a little farther from the edge of despair. More took her hands from his shirt and held them in his own, large thumb gliding over the back of her small, smooth hand. His brown eyes locked with her blue ones.

"I am here for you. Always." Katherine gave him a true smile.

"Wife?" and then winced, it was Boleyn. More dropped her hands instantly, guiltily, he did not want to bring trouble to his beloved Queen.

"'Husband.'" Katherine greeted her 'spouse'. Boleyn looked between her and More in their secluded corner, eyes ablaze.

"Katherine, _mon cher_, you look tired – we should be going." He took her arm in his strong hand and hauled her to him.

"More." Boleyn said curtly.

"Your Grace."

"Good Night Thomas." Katherine said softly, More bowed.

"My Lady."

Boleyn drug her away and manhandled her all the way to their chamber. He slammed the door behind him and then turned upon Katherine angrily, his ice blue eyes spitting green jealousy.

"What were you doing with him?" he asked venomously.

"Who? Thomas?"

"Sir Thomas – unless you are _familiar _with him." Katherine narrowed her eyes at his implication, she wanted to slap him. But she didn't know if he would slap her back.

"Of course I am familiar with him – he is my oldest friend. I do not like your insinuations _My Lord_." He took a step closer to her, and then another, soon her nose was to his chest, he was forcing her to look up at him. Once again she was unwillingly put in a submissive position.

"And I do not like you talking to him. I _forbid_ you from being alone with him. I do not want you near him." Her nostrils flared. He did not! No one forbid a daughter of Spain from doing anything.

"And why not?" she got out between gritted teeth.

"Because you are _mine_." And his lips crashed against hers.


	11. 10 Blue

Oddments

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Wolsey/ Joan Larke

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Prompt #10: Blue

There is a moment, before work and worry cloud his blue eyes, that he is the man he used to be. The man you fell in irrational, irrevocable love with.

In his eyes you see the young man so shy when you first met. They are the same eyes that held yours when he told you that he would love you with every beat of his heart for as long as his heart would beat.

They are the eyes that wept with joy at the birth of your two children and glowed with pride as he baptized them both. They are the eyes he passed on to his children, and those children passed them on to their children.

In these brief moments they are the eyes of the man you love. And then, painfully a stranger takes over. Flint replaces warmth, calculation merriment. They do not dance, they do not sparkle. They plot, they plan. His eyes turn from you to the 'prize'. The painful, distant prize. Once a clear summer sky blue clouds have gathered. You fear the storm.

And yet, for a moment the sun breaks through and all is how it used to be.

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_Many thanks to all my readers, especially cocorocks and Boleyn Girl13 for their kind reviews and Doctor Madwoman for listening to my ramblings._


	12. 11 Purple

Oddments

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – Anne Boleyn

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Prompt #11: Purple

A hush fell over the hall, even if a pin was dropped it would not be heard, the silence was penetrating. And then a dull roar, like a wave on the ocean, as every head turned and every eye stared.

The new comer in their midst, the bringer of this pervasive still walked with her dark head high, a trail of whispers in her wake. Hands clasped in front of her she moved with a dancer's grace, ears deaf to the words around her. She was slender and a good height, a shade darker than beautiful her overall completion gave her an exotic look, made striking b her fine, beguiling dark eyes. Her full lips were drawn in a slight smirk, the only betrayal of her thoughts as the entire room – nay the entire court, watched her.

She stopped.

"What is it? What has she done?" A voice hissed louder than the rest, she tilted her heart shaped jaw, training her hearing to the response.

"She is wearing purple."


	13. 12 Black

Oddments

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell

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Prompt #12: Black

_Black: a color value that has no hue as a result of the absorption of nearly all light from all visible wavelengths._

In the darkness of the church only the light of a few vigil candles and her red dress shone.

"You listen to me Thomas Cromwell," she'd said with such force he, for a blissful moment, thought she was well. "Don't you dare burry me in a black dress." It ended. She would never be well. She knew she was dying. She was going to die.

Those were her last words until with her dying breath she whispered,

"I love you."

Red was her color – bold, intense. Lively. She looked her best in that hue. Even now, cold in death, pale hands folded over her breast, blue eyes closed eternally she was beautiful.

She was color, when ever he feared he would turn into a soulless black and white legal document she would flounce through his office and into his arms, making his dull life a kaleidoscope.

And now she was gone, and so was all the color. Without her there was no one to catch him, keep him from falling into the bottomless pit of black.

His eyes streaming he kissed her for the last time and closed the lid of her casket, the bed for her eternal rest. He closed the lid on his color, resigning himself to darkness, a new world without light. A new world of black.

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_PS Happy Fourth of July! Enjoy a cold one, some MEAT, and blowing something up, courtesy of the USA._


	14. 13 White

Oddments

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Boleyn/ Katherine of Aragon

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Prompt #13: White

Her dress was as white as her poor Mary's face as the Devil George Boleyn held a dagger to her throat. It was the only reason Katherine willed her feet forward, down the aisle to Satan himself. He smiled brazenly at her, also dressed in the pale shade known as white – making a mockery of all it represented. The velvet of his jacket matched the color of his hair and both made her stomach turn.

The heretic 'minister' engendered for Satan's work ignored Mary's gasp as the Beast pressed the blade closer to her ashen neck, Katherine moved faster down the aisle.

The Bastard took her hands and held them so tight that she was sure they would be crushed. The heretic defied God and declared her true marriage, her Holy nuptials to the King of England, null and void.

"Do you, Lord Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire, take Katherine, Princess Dowager of England, to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

"I do." The Bastard said, bearing his white teeth in a vile smile.

"And do you, Katherine, Princess-"

"She does." He growled, squeezing her hands tighter still, "Don't you, _Princess_?" His eyes flicked to Mary who cried out – first in horror and then in pain as the Devil George tightened his grip on her neck. Katherine took a deep, pained breath,

"I do."


	15. 14 Earth

Oddments

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None - Margaret More Roper

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Prompt #14: Earth

My lips twist in a bitter, morbid humor as I watch the smaller box be lowered to rest atop a large boy. Both are covered with dirt. Inside the small box, packed with spice, is the head that was severed from my father's body by order of the King. It was displayed on a pike for a little under a month, until I bought it from the crown. It is all I have of him now; the Tower would not allow us his body for a proper burial. The larger box is that of my husband William, who not six months after my father's passing has joined him in eternal rest.

We are alone now, my children, my young brother John, myself, and my mother Alice. John is too young to support us, our sisters cannot take six in and I cannot bear to be separated from what's left of my family. We have suffered enough loss.

Henry, my Henry, named for our good and gracious sovereign, is only ten but he tries so hard to be older. To be stronger. To be just like the man whom his namesake had executed. He holds his own tears in as he comforts his sister. Little Katherine, she bares the name of the one true Queen of England. Her Grace was a true and loyal friend of my Father's and he loved her as much as he loved me. At his death she sent us a letter and rosary even though she had been reduced to poverty. She promised that she and her ladies would say five hundred masses for his soul. She was a great comfort but I fear we will have to sell the rosary for bread if something cannot be done.

Thomas, named for the great man now passed, takes my hand. I will worry tomorrow. Today I morn.


	16. 15 Wind

Oddments

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Eustace Chapuys/ Margaret More Roper

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Prompt #15: Wind

I watch with some sadness as my island gets smaller and small as an ocean slowly begins to separate me from my home. My home. It will always be England. No matter where I go or what I do I will always be a daughter of St. George. But England is not my place anymore. No, my place is here, with Eustace, whose arms tighten around me as the ocean wind whips about us and we say good bye to my Island. My home may be England, but it is not where I belong. I belong with the man I love. Eustace Chapuys.


	17. 16 Fire

Oddments

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Boleyn/ Katherine of Aragon

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Prompt #16: Fire

Her hand cracked across his cheek like lightning across the summer sky. He felt it grow hot as blood tingled in her handprint. It stung. He swore, grabbing her upper arms roughly.

"You BITCH." She looked at him, blue eyes aflame, jaw set, nostrils flared, nose turned up; her entire expression seemed to say, _Give me a reason._

He had not expected such a fire in her, she always seemed so submissive – to Henry, even author before him – for the short time they were married. He never thought this pan would be easy but he'd never thought it'd be so hard. He'd be so hard – she had fire and, Lord help him, he liked it.

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_I will be leaving for my freshman orientation bright and early tomorrow (6 am! Ugh!) I thought about waiting until I return to post, but I've never been one to deny gratification… so here ya go. Enjoy._

_Much love to Boleyn Girl13, cocorocks, and miruvor._


	18. 17 Water

Oddments

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Wolsey/ Joan Larke  
Note: This was written in England during a ten day family vacation in the summer of 2009.

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Prompt #17: Water

You know how this looks to the world. It kills you inside, because what they see s not the truth. It is beyond their understanding. They see a single, unwed mother and her bastard child. A whore and an undesirable. They see no reason for the King's chaplain, a bishop, to baptize such an unworthy child. They see it as an act of sheer Christian kindness, a painful duty.

You feel nothing but joy as your fingers, damp with Holy Water form the sign of the cross on the babe's forehead and heart. She is the most beautiful baby under heaven. She is yours, your daughter, your Dorothy. You love her with your whole heart and at the age of one month she already has you wrapped around her young finger. You did not know happiness until she was born and it is your proudest moment to baptize her in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

You take your daughter from her mother and hiss her fat, new born cheek, she does not cry, she does not fuss, she simply looks at you and smiles reaching for your nose, holding your heart in her hand. Joan beams.

Joan. Your child's mother. Your love. Your life. Your love for her is so strong that not even God can keep you apart. She is your heat. She watches you with your daughter, her large brown eyes mist, full pink bow mouth parted in a smile. You have made her happy. You suddenly don't care abut the world. You don't care about what they think. In this moment they know nothing. They are nothing. Because in this moment you have made Joan smile.

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_Note II: I am alive, survived college orientation, although I tell you it was close – that is a lot of information in a very short time. But now I have a schedule (I'm going to take Latin!), and a tee shirt. University of Iowa here I come! Yay college._


	19. 18 Spirit

Oddments

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell

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Prompt #18: Spirit

An intensely light sleeper since becoming a parent the low pitched humming woke him with a violent start. Thomas looked around his bedchamber, the full moon cast looming shadows across the wall and ceiling, that evening he'd been so sure nothing hid in the darkness, but now it was night and with the humming? He wasn't so sure.

Carefully he slipped from bed, making sure he did not wake Elizabeth, who was still snoring, probably unable to hear the hum over the din of her sinuses. His feet in slippers, a robe wrapped around him Cromwell lit a candle and slipped into the hall.

The King had given him generous chambers at Hampton; in them he had three bedrooms, two bathrooms, an office, a living room and a closet the size of the kitchen at his Putney home. Room by room he crept, the hum was coming from his chambers and it was getting louder.

The said that the court was haunted, yet he did not believe in ghosts… but whatever was going on was certainly creepy. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he stopped outside a door; the humming was coming from the other side. He reached from the knob…

"Thomas?"

"AHHHHH!" he screamed, jumping out of his skin. Elizabeth screamed, she'd clearly woken at his exit and followed.

Years, years off of his life, all to discover his son up late reading.

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_Note: Some people hum when they are focusing intently, it's a continuous monotone, they can't hear it, nor do they know they are doing it, and based on personal experience they have no idea how loud they are._


	20. 19 Affection

Oddments

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Wolsey/ Joan Larke  
Note: This was written in England during a ten day family vacation in the summer of 2009.

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Prompt #19: Affection

Thomas buried his face in Joan's neck, holding her near, relishing in her softness. She had her hands linked low around his waist enjoying him as well. He had missed this – these quiet times were so rare now. Running the country – the King's bidding, had devoured his time, his life, and at times he feared it'd devour him as well.

But in this moment he was Thomas, just Thomas; not Cardinal Wolsey, not Chancellor, just Thomas and he was in love.

He cupped Joan's round cheek and pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering to smell her hair. Her sent – a mix of oranges and perfection.

"I love you." He whispered, "With all my heart, wholly and truly, I love you." She looked up at him, in her eyes, what he fell in love with when they were both much younger, in her eyes he saw God, for God was love and nothing but pure love was reflected in her large doe eyes.


	21. 20 Anger

Oddments

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – Henry Tudor

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Prompt #20: Anger

He was angry – nay anger was a weak word, insufficient for the fury he felt.

This was someone's fault. It had to be. He could not bring about this hell. Someone else was to blame.

And yet… Wolsey, More, and Cromwell were all dead. Katherine, Anne, and Jane gone, he'd divorced the German. Buckingham gone, the heretics burned, the rebellion ended, Spain and France knew better than to attack him, he was the KING OF ENGLAND.

And yet…

There was no one… there was no one to blame.

No one to but himself.

He threw his chair across the room.


	22. 21 Fear

Oddments

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing. Nor am I a parent, if any pregnancy/ baby things are incorrect chock it up to inexperience.  
Pairing: Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell

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Prompt #21: Fear

Elizabeth Cromwell opened her eyes and then promptly shut them. No, the room had not quit spinning. She must have fainted for she was no longer standing by the window, she was on the bed, this obviously Thomas's doing, his footfall panicked as he paced beside her, his boot heels very loud – and annoying – to her sensitive ears.

"Thomas – stop it." She said, not as snappy as she would have wished. She sounded weak. She hated weak.

"_Laus Deo__1__!_" he exclaimed bounding to bed and drawing her up in his arms – which did nothing for her head, but Thomas did not notice, relief was pouring off of him as he buried his face in her neck. Cold tears stained his cheeks as he held her tight – as if afraid she was not real.

"I was so afraid, I - I thought I lost you." He said hoarsely, "I thought you were going to die. You've been so sick this last fortnight, I – I thought…"

"Shhhh," she soothed, running her fingers through his short curls in the way she knew calmed him. "Shhh, do not worry Husband – Mine, I am very much _alive_." She pulled away, cupping his handsome, square face in her hands. She touched her forehead to his and dried his dark eyes.

"Thomas," she said softly, "Thomas, I'm pregnant." his eyes grew very wide… and then rolled back in his head.

* * *

_1 Latin, Praise God, I imagine if this is their first child the Cromwells will still be Catholic, along with everyone else…_


	23. 22 Guilt

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Wolsey/ Joan Larke

* * *

Prompt #22: Guilt

"You deserve to be more than a whore." Cardinal Wolsey told the girl; in her eyes he could see the mixed reaction at his rejection. He knew she was grateful to not have to sleep with an old man, but the rejection still stung. She left and he returned to his work, shaking his head. He knew why this happened, why the Kings sent him whores…

They did not understand. They thought that he kept Joan as a mistress - many of those before him kept mistresses, many of his fellows kept mistresses. He did not. Joan was not his mistress, Joan was not his whore. Joan was his wife. It hurt him to think people though less of her than her station but he knew his pain was nothing like what she must feel. She had to live with their stigmas. She had to live with being thought a whore. He was not an easy man to love.

There were times, often like this one that he wondered if he should not have simply quit the cloth when he met her. Resigned. When they met they were young; he with no titles or rank to his name, just another low level priest to the King. To have simply left would have been easy and then she could be his wife in every way – including the most important, in title. It did not seem to matter that he loved her, that he was faithful to her, that he respected and cared for her – this apparently did not make them married, no it seemed that standing before a party and buying a dress made you married. Living the vows simply did not.

It was too late now, he could not simply quit, no matter how much he wanted to. Joan would never be accepted as his wife. The fact killed him a little inside, the guilt of all the things he should have done ate away like a disease. She'd ruined her life for him, and what had he done for her? What could he do for her?

He could love her and that was all. Love her and thank God every day for her love.


	24. 23 Hate

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – Henry Tudor

* * *

Prompt #23: Hate

Hate. Hate coursed through him so hot he thought he might run mad with the emotion. He thought he knew himself and thought he knew this thing called hate but he had been mistaken. The hate he had know in the past was mere dislike when compared to this, this abhorrence, complete and utter loathing, this odium, revolting detestation. All words were weak, insufficient for the burning, churning hate hat clawed at his insides; abominate flames licking at his heart.

He wanted to destroy, completely smashed into obliteration that which his hate dictated. Love and devotion had gotten him nothing; it was time to rule by the antagonist emotion.

* * *

_I don't know why he's so angry but boy is he pissed! It seems fitting really._

_Henry stuck me as a man ruled by his passions seemed to be ruled by their baser brethren. Tis a sad reflection on our world when in the end anger, fear, hatred, and willful, self serving ignorance and intolerance win out over love, understanding, compassion, altruism, and kindness. I suppose this is my biggest disappointment in the entirety of the human condition, transcending monarchs and men._

_I shall now remove myself from this soap box. I apologize for the rant._


	25. 24 Love

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell

* * *

Prompt #24: Love

Cromwell couldn't suppress his smile, even if the taken aback King did have him worried. Elizabeth certainly knew how to make an impression – and an exit. Henry stood in the doorway simply staring as she stormed through the hall and burst through the door to the passage way beyond.

"If I might inquire, how did you meet your wife?" The King asked still looking after Elizabeth, though she was gone. Thomas's smile turned wistful at the memories, though his worry grew.

"We grew up together." He was the son of an alehouse keeper, she a clothier's daughter. It as common knowledge he was not of noble stock, but just how far he'd risen was a true shock.  
"Childhood romance?"  
"I suppose, although I did not know I loved her until I returned from school. I was running an errand and she was at the Clothier's shop. She asked me a question and I knew I was going to marry her." It was probably too much to share but he couldn't help himself.  
"What was it?" The King asked turning to face his Secretary.  
"Hmm?" For a moment Thomas was lost in a memory.  
"What was it she asked you?"

_"Thomas Cromwell! Hidden under any girls' beds lately?" Thomas Cromwell, a young lawyer fresh from school was stopped in the door of the Clothier's Shop by a familiar voice and an impish smile.  
_  
"I, um, don't recall."


	26. 25 Shy

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – Fatherly!Eustace Chapuys

* * *

Prompt #25: Shy

Ambassador Eustace Chapuys winced at the sound of something breaking down the hall as he tried to work. He loved Margaret's children as his own but it was moments like this that he almost wistfully wished for those quiet bachelor days. His Madre was surly happy in heaven however, he knew that the majority of her grey hair came from him and his brothers and one too many games of prisoner's base and king of the castle. It was memories of his childhood that kept him from begrudging Henry and Thomas their games, even if it meant his once formal sitting room was now a swordsman's playground.

The reminiscing, in conjunction with the ruckus also meant that the very soft knock at his door almost went unheard. Almost.

"Sí," he said, "Enter." Very slowly the door to his office opened, in the small space created was Katherine, the very image of her mother Margaret. Her long blonde hair curled freely from under her coif which was untied, it framed her face, especially her mother's sweet blue eyes. Those eyes were currently very wide, and yet as he met them they turned away, casting down to the floor.

"Catalina," he said softly, he loved Margaret, and he loved her children, but it was hard when they were so blasted shy around him. "What can I do for you _Mihija_?" She shuffled her little feet under her simple grey skirt.

"May… May I read in here with you, sir?" she asked softly, "I find that my brothers' games are too loud." Eustace smiled, little Katherine, such a sweet, gentle, earnest girl, it was easy to see Margaret the same way.

"Of course, dear one, you may always come here if you would like a quiet place." Katherine gave him a true smile.

"Thank you sir!" she said. Sir. That was a habit he was going to need to break all of them of, it was better than the dreaded Excellency, but still they were now a family, not a court. She closed the door and made her way to sit on the floor by his chair. This was his simple office, not the room where he received anyone, just where he worked, it thusly, and regrettably had no chairs aside from the one he occupied at his large desk. He looked at Katherine sitting cross legged to his left on his plus rug. But no matter how fuzzy his floor covering was he knew she would not be comfortable. He pushed his chair back from his desk.

"Catalina," He said softly, she looked up from her book, fear almost in her eyes, "You will not be comfortable for long there, come sit with me, there is room." He patted his knee, she looked at him for a moment. He beseeched her with his eyes. He just wanted to be her father, to be part of her family. Not some figure she was afraid of. The moment passed and she smiled crawling into his lap. He beamed as well and returned to his work, one wall between them breached.

* * *

_Big thanks to Elinor Potter who has saved me from making a total fool of myself and my free translator Spanish, hence the repost. If any of you see a glaring error, please, TELL ME! Think of the error as me walking out of the women's room with my skirt tucked into my pantyhose – stop me before someone else sees!_


	27. 26 Tease

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing, I am all so not a poet so I apologize in advance.  
Pairing: Henry Tudor/ Anne Boleyn

* * *

Prompt #26: Tease

You tease me, o my longed for Lover,

Thy beguiling eyes peer my soul,

How I desire tee above all other,

Your lips, wine, how a taste would make me whole.

Your smile is worst of all,

Warm and straight and white like purity herself,

A flash of it and I fall,

If it shines for me alone I would give up my wealth.

How I long to touch your skin so petal soft,

But my delicate flower,

My unworthiness would have you scoff,

My true love over my heart you have such power.

Oh my desire, tease me no longer,

My heart's cry for you grows ever stronger.


	28. 27 Breakfast

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas More/ Katherine of Aragon

* * *

Prompt #27: Breakfast

She likes him best before breakfast, when the morning's rude light first filters through the breaches in the curtains and his eyelids flitter with the first stirrings of wakefulness. Cocooned in blankets and her arms the top of his head is the first to greet the morn. His brown hair mussed, sticking out in all directions his handsome features become almost boyish. Relaxation melts years from him.

Slowly his eyes open and fix on her and she knows once he shakes the blur of last nights dreams from his brown gaze the first thing he focuses on will be her. It makes her heart swell and turns her inside out as she melts.

His strong arms wrap around her and hold all the pieces she falls to close to his warm chest. He just holds her, now they are both awake, and yet both too lazy to begin their day. And so wrapped in each other's arms and a mountain of blankets they remain content in the moment. They remain content in bed until his stomach rumbles the time. They laugh and he kisses her soundly.

"Ready for breakfast, my love?"


	29. 28 Lunch

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Parings: None – The League of Extraordinary Gentlewomen

* * *

Prompt #28: Lunch

Katherine was so amused that there was a moment of silence as she endeavored to take control of her silent laughter.

"Kat, what is it?" Joan asked, placing a mothering hand on her friend's finely clothed arm, "What is the matter?" a tear worked its way from Katherine's glittering eye.

"Nothing, Joan, not a thing." She said; her voice a twitter of laughter. "Do you know what Henry said to me over lunch today?" Alice leaned forward, her hand placed on Katherine's other arm.

"Do we need to punish is highness – no man makes a League woman cry. No. Man." Alice's eyes were hard. Thomas More had no idea of the strength of the woman he made his wife. Alice could defeat an army if she was so inclined.

"I am not crying, Alice, dear, I am laughing. Henry – Henry tried to tell me I was just his 'wife'" she lowered her pitch to match her husband's English voice, "You are my wife – not my minister, not my chancellor, but my wife." The other women laughed as well, the chamber rang with the spontaneous mirth of three highly amused women.

"It was all I could do not to burst out laughing at the table!" Soon all the cheeks were rosy, wet with tears of humor.

"Oh little does he know!"


	30. 29 Dinner

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None - Thomas Cromwell  
Note: This was written in England during a ten day family vacation in the summer of 2009.

* * *

Prompt #29: Dinner

Thomas Cromwell felt his stomach churn as he circled the filthy, beaten cook. His words were harsh pleas. He knew that this man had not acted alone in poisoning the Bishop Fisher and his guests. He knew who was behind the plot even – they were watching him now with eyes as steely as their souls. The Boleyns.

It was a tight rope he walked and Cromwell prayed to God for help to stay on it. He knew this man – this family man was guilty of nothing but concern for his family. Thomas was guilty of the same. It was this guilt that held his mouth shut and his heart in prayer.

He wished the man would say who paid him, to cry out, "It was them, it was the Boleyns - they are guilty!" True justice could be served. But that would jeopardize the man's family; in fact a true confession might kill them. So instead he prated for the protection of the man's family and that this cook's inevitable death would be painless.

He prayed too for strength of his own. He would need it. Lord Boleyn's blue eyes twisted into him like daggers. He knew. That look - that thin, curled lip sneer told Thomas that his Good Lord Wiltshire knew that he knew the truth. He would be watching. Like the falcon of his badge. Sir Thomas Boleyn would be watching and waiting to tear him limb from limb like the bird of prey he was.

Cromwell prayed for his family. If he died because of his own actions he would feel no pain, but if harm was to befall his beloved Elizabeth, his only living child Gregory? Because of him? That would be pain to no end.

Thomas met Boleyn's eyes. And that was what Boleyn would do – if given the chance.


	31. 30 Food

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell

* * *

Prompt #30: Food

Thomas Cromwell looked at his wife with horror, her hand on her swollen abdomen, her eyes _begging _him. Usually far less a display had him around her finger, running to do her bidding. But this request? This request he couldn't comply with. He just couldn't.

"No, Elizabeth, just no." her blue eyes filled with tears until they were swimming in despair.

Oh Lord preserve him, he couldn't stand it when she cried.

"But – but Thomas, I _crave _it."

"I don't care Elizabeth, I will not-"

"It's all I think about! I – I'm having fantasies of sitting under a tree and – and in one hand I have a tomato" She held up her left hand as if the red orb was in it, "and the other…" she wiped her cheeks, "I'm having myself a little salad." New tears replaced the ones she removed. He couldn't take it and swept her up into his arms, allowing her to cry into his chest. The baby had her so weepy it scared them both, but the midwife said it was perfectly natural.

"If you want a salad I will buy you lettuce." He told her stroking her back, feeling the knots there. She was in pain – being pregnant was not nearly as beautiful as it looked.

"But Thomas-" she whined.

"No buts Elizabeth, I won't allow you to eat… _grass_, you'd kill me once the craving passed."

* * *

_Note: Craving grass or other strange, non – edibles like clay, dirt, toothpaste, drywall is called pica, it effects a small portion of pregnant women, although doctors aren't entirely sure why._


	32. 31 Drink

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Paring: None – The League of Extraordinary Gentlewoman

* * *

Prompt #31: Drink

The Queen of France sipped her wine with a smirk as her companions looked at each other, waiting for an explanation, which Claude gave in good time.

"Francis does not pay attention, and so when he is off fornicating I do what I like."

"Doesn't he notice?" Katherine asked amazed. Henry loved to play but he would behead the wind of it ruffled a page on his desk.

"Not really." Claude replied with a shrug. "And if he does it is often too late for a change to be made, as in the case with this treaty. All he could do is fire the secretary and vow to pay more attention. I reward him with a new mistress and I reward the secretary with a new position. There are many women of means who prefer a servant of my quality."

"A man who allows a wife to do as she pleases." Joan observed, Claude smiled at the Cardinal's wife.

"_Exactement_. Jerald has been sent to Spain, a wedding gift for any wife Charles takes."

"Why do you not do that Katherine? I can ensure that Thomas appoints any man Claude sends." Joan smiled, liking the idea of persuading her mate. Katherine smiled, but shook her head.

"With a secretary Henry would be easy, but Wolsey? Wolsey I could not fool."

"I can take care of that." Joan said a glitter in her large brown eyes.

"Joan, you would have to keep him in bed for a month!" Claude joined in the fun and the woman raised their glasses.


	33. 32 Run

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Paring: None – The League of Extraordinary Gentlewoman

* * *

Prompt #32: Run

The bowels of the palace was such a vulgar term but Alice More could not think of a better one. Any deeper and she was certain she would meet with Old Scratch himself. But the good Queen Katherine seemed to know this forgotten stair well, she led her confidently down the smooth, steep, poorly lit steps, each turn and twist seemed to be an old friend not a new advisory.

"Your Majesty?" Alice questioned as they reached an ancient, heavy wooden door, half hidden by a threadbare, forgotten tapestry. The Queen paused outside the door and turned to look at her companion.

"Katherine, Alice, call me Katherine."

"Your – Katherine." Alice corrected, "I don't understand." Katherine put her shoulder to the door and threw it open. Beyond it was a comfortable, cozy room with a cracking fire and two very familiar women.

"Now do you understand?" Katherine asked her bewildered friend. The stunned expression on her face as Joan Larke, Cardinal Wolsey's long time mistress and Queen Claude of France waved at her welcomingly.

"No." she whispered.

"We run the Country." Joan said brightly.


	34. 33 Hide

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Wolsey/ Joan Larke

* * *

Prompt #33: Hide

"Ten… Nine… Eight… Seven… Six… Five… Four… Three… Two… One… Ready or not – here I come!" A little boy's squeal rang through the halls of Hampton Court. Thomas Wolsey raised his young face from his elbows and looked around excitedly, playing hide and seek here was so much more difficult than playing at any other palace; he loved it. Carefully he began the search for her family.

Nobody in the closet.

Nobody behind the sofa in the library.

"I found you!" Thomas exclaimed, Dorothy was behind a tapestry in the foyer, her red skirts sticking out the bottom and giving her away.

His mother hid under the table in the family dining room.

Father, however, was no where to be found. Thomas looked for his namesake high; Thomas looked for his namesake low. Eventually he and Dorothy went outside to look for him, amazed at their father's skills at Hide and Go seek.

Joan was not as impressed, she caught him under his desk, knees pressed against one side of the drawers, head bent, back firmly pressed against the other side. Looking at him cramped there she could not but laugh, he could be too competitive for his own good in some things.

"Good place." She said sitting in the chair he'd pushed back to make room for his body under the work surface.

"I thought so." He said proudly with a boyish smile.

"You know they're supposed to be able to find you." He laughed and moved a hand to help himself out of his hiding place. Except he couldn't move.

"Uh… Joan…I'm stuck."


	35. 34 Play

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – The Boys  
Note: This was written in England during a ten day family vacation in the summer of 2009.

* * *

Prompt #34: Play

It's a tough life - the boy's club, is it not? All the wine, the women, the song. It's tennis in the morning, horses at noon, a ball that evening and women all night long.

So here's to you – You work hard, you play harder and you lay anything that moves. Oh how glorious it is to be you. Young. Rich. Fabulous.

It's quite a job – entertaining the King, wooing the ladies, and getting your beauty sleep. You magnificent, lucky, handsome bastards.

Be careful though, I warn you, for the day might come that you will have to take like seriously.


	36. 35 Birth

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing. Nor am I a parent, chock any issues up to inexperiance.  
Pairing: Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell

* * *

Prompt #35: Birth

"Thomas… _Thomas_." Cromwell was awake immediately, there was fear in her voice and something wet on his leg.

"Wh-what is it?" he asked, poised, ready to spring from bed and fetch whatever she needed, these last few weeks before the birth were the most important Mother Fennel had said.

"My water broke."

"What?" he knew that meant something but for the life of him he couldn't recall what.

"My water broke – the baby is coming!"

"Now?!" _Now?_

"Yes! Mother Fennel said the first one may be early." Her words were bouncing off of him, nothing but 'its coming' sinking in.

"But it's the middle of the night."

"Do. You. Think. It. Cares?" _Pull yourself together Thomas!_ His mind chided. The baby was coming, Elizabeth needed him. He sprang from bed.

"I will have to get Mother Fennel – can … do I… should I…" Elizabeth rolled her eyes heavenward and slowly got out of bed. "Don't get up!"

"Mother Molly said that I shall be alright alone for the time it takes you to retrieve her. And Thomas, I'm _not_ staying in that wet bed." He nearly fell trying to pull both his shoes and coat on. She laughed and waddled (for she hadn't been able to walk properly for over a month) over to him, helping him with the buttons his shaking fingers couldn't manage.

"The sooner I leave the sooner I return." He said pulling for the door. He was running on nothing but pure adrenaline, logic no where to be found.

"Thomas, dear, you do need to hurry, but you can take the time to put on pants." He looked down at himself – nightshirt, jacket, linen shorts, untied boots.

"You're right, you're right." He'd never been so out of sorts in his life, how was he going to survive fatherhood?

"You – you are _never_ touching me again! NEVER!" Elizabeth informed him the moment he crossed the threshold of the room she demanded he be in. there was no arguing with a pregnant woman, especially not a pregnant woman in labor.

"That's a promise you'll be regrettin' Mistress Cromwell." Midwife Molly Fennel quipped from between Elizabeth's legs. "Hold her hand Master C, the time to push is near." Thomas did as he was told, his wife's hand wrapped around his like a vice but he didn't flinch – this wasn't about him.

A contraction hit her and she howled, sounding a thousand times more heart wrenching than when he was below stairs.

"Alright 'Lizabeth, deep breaths." The midwife said… "And push!"

"AHHH!" Elizabeth screamed, tears sprang to Thomas' eyes, only partially due to the fact he'd never be able to use his hand again.

He'd never felt so powerless – never. She was in such pain – something was hurting her. And there was _nothing_ he could do.

"Deep breaths Beth, deep breaths." It was a chant he kept until she grabbed him by the collar and hauled him down to her sweaty face.

"I. Don't. Want…" the baby was coming and she lost all control.

"One more push! You're doing great!" Mother Fennel exclaimed.

"This is ALL _your _fault you bastarddd!" her insult was interrupted by her scream of pain and… a new sound. The sound of a very healthy set of lungs.

"The baby is here!" Mistress Fennel praised, "A _very_ healthy girl."

"Did you hear that Elizabeth?! We have a daughter!" Thomas looked into his wife's eyes, she was exhausted, and ecstatic.

"A daughter?" She whispered, voice gone from screaming.

"Yes! You did it!" _A daughter_. As beautiful as her mother, Thomas felt nothing he'd ever felt before and it was all good.

"You did not want a son?" The moment ended and he looked at his wife with narrow eyes, was she joking?

"No! I wanted you and the baby to survive healthy and happy. Did you want a son?" She closed her eyes and licked her parched lips.

"By the end Thomas…" she sighed, "I jut wanted her _out_ of me."

* * *

_Note: All I know of birth is that which my mother told me, which focused mainly on the loss of all bodily functions and extreme pain. Of course after she tells me of the horror of child birth she in forms me that, while she does not want one NOW or anytime soon she would like at least one grandchild. I told her to get a dog._


	37. 36 Death

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – Elizabeth I

* * *

Prompt #36: Death

Elizabeth the unmarried. Elizabeth the Virgin Queen. She was dying, and with her passing so to the Tudor Dynasty, all of her grandfather's work, would die out as well. She could have stopped this – married, had children, kept her line alive. And yet that would require love, and love was too close to loss for her to enter that emotional state willingly.

Elizabeth did not have a positive role model where matters of the heart were concerned – she had her father.

His majesty, King Henry VIII, had six wives by the time of his death, and with each bride Elizabeth saw love transform from the sweeping epics of bedtime to a fickle, wayward master – never true, always fleeting.

Henry first married Katherine, a Spanish Princess who crossed an ocean for her husband. She endured widowhood and poverty before devoting her best years to her adopted land. She had been stubborn and she had been wrong, blindingly Catholic and blindingly devoted to Henry, despite the shaky grounds of their marriage. And yet as she lay dying Elizabeth could not blame her. Katherine was told almost from birth she was to be Queen, she was the daughter of Queens. And the break from Rome was new, the light of true religion faint as sunrise, she had not known it. And the woman had a right to be stubborn, in her grey hair and barren age she was sent away. Elizabeth knew that her mother was in the right and yet she knew how that must have stung.

Her mother. Anne Boleyn had loved the King truly, her only desire to do what he wanted. She brought about a great enlightenment, saving the English people from the abominations and abuses of the Bishop of Rome. She loved passionately. All she wanted was a boy. God deprived her that and in the end true love did not save her.

From Katherine and her mother Elizabeth learned that one can fall out of love as quickly as one can fall in it. And what the king wants – from religious supremacy to a Queen dead – the king gets.

And then there was Sweet Jane, the name her father had for Jane Seymour from the moment he met her on earth to the moment he met her in heaven. Elizabeth had been too young to form much of an opinion of the Queen who'd given her father the ultimate gift, a son, the good King Edward; she also paid the ultimate price. Jane's passing affirmed to Elizabeth that Love cannot save you.

Her father then married and divorced Anne of Cleves – all over her looks. She was a kind sweet lady, who like Katherine, years before her crossed countries and left home to make herself his bride. His dismissal of her taught Elizabeth that love is most certainly not blind.

When her father put kind, sweet, young Kathryn Howard to death, Elizabeth knew – she swore she would never marry. Kathryn should never had been queen – at least not at her age, had she had time to be a child and not a pawn Elizabeth knew she could've been something special. She had been a kind and caring girl. But a _girl_. And her death told her that love and marriage went together like death and betrayal.

Aside from her own beloved mother Elizabeth loved Catharine Parr the best, she took an interest in her education and encouraged her studies and praised her always. And yet Catharine's last two marriages, to Elizabeth's father and to Thomas Seymour showed her that love was conditional. Henry only loved Catharine when she submitted to him in all things. Thomas only loved Catharine when she was the best that he could get.

As Elizabeth took her final breath she reflected on the one lesson she'd learned, not through tears, it was the bright spot before the eternal sleep, one lesson in love that resembled the pure courtly affection so favored.

There was one love that never faded. The love between a woman and her country.

* * *

_Note: I'm not really pleased with this piece, there were so many deaths to choose form I didn't know where to go and each one seemed triter than the next. Than and what can I say about these women that hasn't been said already. And what can I say about these Queens that won't get someone mad at me?_


	38. 37 Broken

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – Henry Tudor

* * *

Prompt #37: Broken

Henry closed his eyes and leaned back against his ornate headboard, Katherine's speaking her last words in his head, her soft voice and gentle accent ringing in his ears. She was dead. His sweet Spanish Princess was gone forever.

She'd been his first love, when she married Arthur. He'd been jealous, Arthur had gotten a beautiful, kind Princess, he was destined for what – a church?

And then Arthur died, leaving his pretty bride alone and widow poor, as well as making Henry heir to the kingdom. She had been so beautiful and so heartbreaking he'd tossed away everything but his desire to save her. They married.

She gave him her best years and her total devotion, but only one living daughter. And then she grew old – so very old. No more children. His wife was no longer the envy of all. He met Anne.

And yet, at Katherine's passing he looked back at their life together. His beautiful Catalina, the love they once had. When they married he took a vow. What had happened?

But what twisted inside of him like a barbed knife wasn't the broken wedding vows.

When he married her, when he loved her, he'd vowed she would never have to be alone again. He vowed to take care of her, to love her, protect and support her for as long as they both lived.

She had died.

Alone.

Impoverished.

He'd broken his vow.


	39. 38 Fixed

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas More/ Katherine of Aragon

* * *

Prompt #38: Fixed

"Thomas," she whispered her voice soft and sad. He took her small hands in his, looking down into her beautiful face wishing to take the sadness from her voice.

"Yes, my love?" he asked, something flashed in her eyes that cut him deeply inside. Even though they were alone Henry was still with them.

"My heart…" she said, looking from him as if he was too intense to behold, "My heart has been broken… for so long. I – I do not know if it will ever love again." Thomas gathered her to his chest, her ear over his heart as it broke as well. His poor, poor Spanish Queen. What could he do to make her whole?

"Katherine," he said softly, running his long fingers through her longer hair. "I will be with you until the last piece is mended."

* * *

_A big thank you to all of you who've reviewed to the point there are almost double the reviews as there are chapters. Wow, never expected that._

_**Pheyna. **__Why was Elizabeth mad at Henry? I'm not sure, he probably said something patronizing. __**cocorocks**__ and __**katherineofaragonfan **__HenKat and Phillip of Bavaria/ Mary I have been taken into consideration – they might show up I have like 62 more prompts to go. __**Boleyn Girl13**__ re dinner – I'd like to think he loved her, I mean there's no record of him remarrying or having a mistress and historically she died pretty young, plus I firmly believe that there's someone for everyone and a reason for everything – and love is a pretty good reason. PS glad you like the League._

_In regards to __**TOMKAT**__ 'Breakfast' google image search 'Jeremy Northam' there is a pretty delicious picture of him in a blanket, it served as inspiration for this little piece. As for the random 'her' when I'm talking about Thomas Wolsey Jr. in 'Hide', I originally had Dorothy doing the seeking but realized I always use Dorothy, and well Wolsey did have little Tommy, so I switched and missed that sex change. Whoops._


	40. 39 Hero

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – Fatherly! Eustace Chapuys

* * *

Prompt #39: Hero

"Eeekkkk!" Ambassador Eustace Chapuys suddenly found himself a piece of climbing equipment for a very frightened little girl with a suddenly very high voice.

"Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!" Katherine, Margaret's little girl, had been reading quietly in his office, her brothers were being too rambunctious and… 'brother like' for her gentle tastes. She'd very shyly knocked on his door and asked if she could read in with him; she'd been so sweet, so unsure, so like her mother he could not deny her. She was now up around his ears as if another had taken her over.

"Be still child." He said with soft authority holding her in his arms so she could not knock him in the head with her flailing appendages, as she had already done once. She seemed even smaller in his large embrace, her petite arms wrapping around his neck as she buried her face in his broad chest. She trembled.

"Catalina, _mi niña_1, what is the matter?" he asked stroking her blonde hair, trying to calm her. She looked up at him, blue eyes misty, full bottom lip quivering, her small finger pointing… to a spider… or a small horse with eight legs. She squeaked, the spider jumped, she squeaked again tightening her arms around his neck. If she hadn't been slowly squeezing the breath out of him he would have laughed. He pried her from his neck and sat her in his chair before scuttling the arachnid out the door.

"There, _mi __pequeña belleza_ 2, the horrible _araña_3 is gone." He said triumphantly closing the door on the unwelcome visitor. Katherine jumped into his arms again, kissing his cheek.

"Papá Chapuys, you're my hero!"

* * *

_1 Katherine, my child/ daughter  
2 My little beauty  
3 Spider  
Again many thanks to Elinor Potter for her Spanish intervention_.


	41. 40 Villain

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell

* * *

Prompt #40: Villain

Moving like an overgrow Raven Thomas Cromwell parted the throng of court with ease and the snap of his dark coat. His black clothes, cold demeanor, sharp eyes and claws all made him more than a mere 'Bat'. He was as dark and feared as the far side of the moon.

Tall and lean and always in the finest, darkest clothes Mr. Secretary, Chancellor, Lord Privy Seal, Baron Cromwell, Earl of Essex, Master of the Jewel House was a hard angular man. There was nothing soft, not a word, not a look, about him. The court respected him – and his power. But also feared him. Like a Raven with sharp beak and talons he could rip any of them apart if he so desired.

The court also loathed him. He was not of high birth. He was a man of great plans and greater ambition but lacked great lineage. A new man through and through. The old men hated him for it. A Lutheran and Reformer the Catholics hated his beliefs, the Protestants hated his policies. He was a pariah, a villain to all the court.

All the court but one. Keeping pace with him, despite her gown and petite stature was a woman, only known to be his wife by their cohabitation. Baron Cromwell never touched his Lady, he showed her no affections, had no kind words, a tilt of his head all he gave if they should meet in the hall. He was as cold to her as he was to the rest of the world. No dances, no gifts, not even a smile.

And it was a shame for the poor Baroness Crowell was a beautiful, vivacious woman liked as much as her husband was despised. She seemed to be his opposite in everyway.

He was tall; she was short with the attractive curves of a mother. Where he was dark she was fair, her blue eyes clear and bright, honey blonde curls held in a simple snood. Her afit making her face truly heart shaped, its arches wide, her chin pleasingly narrow. Her eyes danced, his flashed. She smiled, he sneered. Her mind and her laugh were quick, as was his judgment.

The entire court watched them pass, the Raven and his wife. They pitied her; it could not be easy on the heart to marry a villain.

* * *

_Note: I went with the Raven motif because A – they're dark and scary (Despite the poetry) and B – if the Ravens ever leave the Tower (of London) the empire will crumble, there for a while Cromwell was the one keeping the empire from falling._


	42. 41 Joy

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Wolsey/ Joan Larke

* * *

Prompt #41: Joy

His own eyes peered up at him as he peered down at her, this miracle fourteen hours and nine months in the making. She was wrapped protectively in her mother's arms, first feeding now over, and a solid burp resounded from her tiny chest. Joan had flatly refused a wet nurse, even though he was in a position to provide one, and after the string of curses she'd hurled his way (clear as a bell despite being heard through a wall since Mother Rosemary Fennel insisted he remain outside) he thought better than to argue with her. And so she fed her own child and in doing so created this idealistic scene, so beautiful he could not but weep.

"Would you like to hold her, Thomas?" Joan asked looking up at him, she absolutely glowed. "Meet her properly." Her. He had a daughter. No, _they_ had a daughter, and truly Joan had done all the work. But still, part of this precious little bundle was him. His little girl, now and forever. And yet…

"Hold her?" he squeaked. Hold her? "I-I might drop her." Joan gave him a look.

"You are not going to drop her; you're a smart man, Thomas, a man who values his life. You're not going to drop her." He would have laughed if she had not been lowering the tiny bundle into his arms. The child – his child was light, small, and warm. He held her to him and she looked up. She took his breath away. It was as if she knew he was safe, as if she knew who he was.

Trust. She looked up at him with nothing but complete and utter trust. He melted.

"Hello, Dorothy," he whispered, "I'm your father."


	43. 42 Grief

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – Katherine of Aragon  
Note: This was written in England during a ten day family vacation in the summer of 2009.

* * *

Prompt #42: Grief

"If I had to choose between extreme sorrow and extreme happiness I'd always choose sorrow." Katherine said in a near whisper, "In sorrow I am closer to God." Her words were quietly intense and he did not doubt her sincerity, but deep in his heart he wondered how much grief she must first endure before the eternal reward.

She had been shuffled like a pawn between two kings, forced to endure humiliating poverty until someone else decided her fate. She then married and buried a young prince before being forced to wait again for an Englishman to control her destiny.

Five babies the Queen lost. Three of them handsome sons. She endured the pain of childbirth and the pain of loss without her husband, or betraying her anguish to the world.

And what had her husband – King done to ease her pain? Taken countless mistresses, recognized his bastard son along side his own daughter and now in her age he tries to cast her aside for a younger woman with nothing but fine eyes and ambition to recommend her. He banishes her to poverty once again and drags her name, her honor and her virtue through the mud. Breaks with Rome and his own daughter.

Even if she did not willingly choose sorrow she had more than her fair share of the emotion. Katherine may mean pure, but it seemed to also mean grief.

_For the Lord will not cast off forever, but, though he cause grief, he will have compassion according to the abundance of his steadfast; for he does not willingly afflict or grieve the children of men. Lamentations 3: 31 - 33_


	44. 43 Lies

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell

* * *

Prompt #43: Lies

A pale, shapely leg slammed down on his desk causing him to nearly topple the inkwell he was using. He looked up from the appendage and was met with his wife, her face as menacing as a sea storm, her eyes smoldering like the fire in the grade. Her full mouth was drawn into a tight, white line, her nostrils flaring, her laugh lines were like canyons.

"Wh-"

"Look at all the moles! Are they not witch's teats? I shall go and take my place on the block – since clearly I am a witch!" She snapped, her vocal pitch fluctuating as her control was strained. "But soft! Was that not an opinion! I shall not be given the peace of a sword I shall now have to BURN for my transgressions!"

"Elizabeth-"

"I talked to a male servant this morn and one before speaking to you, am I not an adulterous whore? Maybe I should be stoned!" She had taken her leg off of the writing surface and replaced it with her hands, fingers white from the grip she had as she leaned in, her nose nearly touching his. Thomas stood, causing the table to buck and Elizabeth to fall slightly, her face now pressed against his chest. He took her narrow shoulders in his broad hands and pulled her back so that they may face each other.

"Elizabeth. Explain." He said evenly, not allowing his own confused emotions to mar his words. She struggled in his hands.

"That _trial_" she spat the word as if it was the greatest slander there was before God "Of the Queen. _Your_ interrogations. _Your_ manipulations. _Your LIES_." It hurt her to speak of him and that stung.

"Elizabeth, the King did not want her."

"The King does not seem to want any wife for long!" She snapped.

"He would do away with her one way or another; it was this or an accusation of heresy – which would be the end of our Reformation. She is a martyr."

"A martyr of a man's pride and nothing more." She tried to break free but he held her fast, he had to explain.

"You told me that I must choose a master and serve them and no other. I have chosen to serve the King in all ways - in all matters. Please understand."

"NO! My husband took a vow to be a loyal servant not a monster."

"I am your husband!" Thomas roared; his patients and control finally taxed beyond their limit. She broke from his grasp, her hand cracking across his face like a whip across a horse's hindquarters. He tasted copper and knew that in God's strange poetry it was caused by the band she wore on her left hand, the little ribbon of gold inscribed _Semper Fidelis_ (Always Faithful), he'd given it to her when they were so young.

"You are not the man I married! I did not like what was done to Queen Katherine, and I did not always like the Queen Anne's personality, I did not like when she quarreled with you, but she was a good, smart woman, and a champion of our Reformation. I simply did not spend time with her when I was unhappy, you – _you_ took her down. _You_ destroyed her name. _You_ have killed her. _My_ husband would do no such thing. _The man I love_ would do no such thing. You sir are not him! You, Mister Secretary, are a man I do not know!" Tears in her eyes Elizabeth picked up her russet skirts and headed for the door. The great slam of the heavy wood could not cover the sob that cut through the air one she was on the other side. The sob that cut through his soul and wrenched at his heart.

He sat down. Numb. Finger pressed to his lips. He had made a vow to be a true and faithful servant to his Majesty. But he had made a vow before that. He had vowed that he would never let Elizabeth cry.

What had he become?


	45. 44 Truth

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Eustace Chapuys/ Margaret More Roper  
Note: This was written in England during a ten day family vacation in the summer of 2009.

* * *

Prompt #44: Truth

I rest my head on his warm, bare chest as he plays with a curl of my now thrice love mused hair. I am so incredibly lucky to have Eustace; he is such a good man. So very kind. And so giving. He made my body sing, it was a song I had never learned before, and he taught me selflessly. To be loved by such a man…

My heart swells and I know, I love him too.

"Eustace," I say, I feel his breath hitch when I say his name and I want to cry – I have found a love perfect and pure.

"Sí Mi Amor?"

"I can't thank you enough for everything that you've done." The love, the sensations, the kindness. And yet I feel him stiffen – and not in a good way.

"Thank? Thank me Margaret?" He is angry. "Was last night because you felt guilty? Is this your way of saying thank you? Sex a kind gift?" His words cut likes knives. And suddenly I am equally as angry. Stupid, proud, interruptive ass. Conclusion jumping fool. How little does he think of me? Was I wrong in my feeling – did I imagine his love? The tenderness?

"No!" I exclaim getting out of bed. I am as naked and I do not care. "I do not _whore_ myself out as you constantly seem to think! I thank you because I felt grateful for your _tenderness_. I slept with you because I. Love. You!" With that I turn on my heel and storm from the room naked as birth and deaf to my husband's calls.

"Margaret!"


	46. 45 Light

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas More/ Katherine of Aragon (Implied)

* * *

Prompt #45: Light

Lady Elizabeth Darrell had been a lady to the Queen for as long as anyone at court could remember. She was as much a part of Katherine as Katherine was a part of England. She had seen it all, felt what her lady felt, knew what no one else knew. She saw what others were blind to.

She watched as the light slowly went out in her Majesty's eyes. After each child lost, each mistress taken the flame of hope slowly shrinking until it was all but dead, until even Elizabeth, who knew her Queen so well, had trouble seeing the light some days.

And then slowly, so very slowly, the flame began to rekindle. At first it was so fait Elizabeth did not see it. But soon Katherine's eyes were ablaze with hope, with love, her light returned ten fold.

"Sir Thomas More to see you Your Highness."


	47. 46 Dark

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Boleyn/ Katherine of Aragon

* * *

Prompt #46: Dark

In the dark it was easy to pretend. To the man beside her was another, to pretend her life was another way.

In the dark she could pretend the body pressed to her back in an unconscious spoon was not his. She could pretend the heights, so similar were of one man, not the other. The muscles were like a wall and were those of a sportsman, only the wrong one.

In the dark she could pretend the silver hair brown, icy eyes warm. She could pretend the man was not her jailor but her husband. Her Henry.

And in the dark she could pretend the warm lust in her breast was for her King, her true spouse.

But she knew it was not.

And that was the darkest of all.


	48. 47 Lost

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Boleyn/ Katherine of Aragon

* * *

Prompt #47: Lost

Thomas Boleyn could barely hide his delight as the clerk placed the parchment before his wife, Katherine, the bested Queen. An oath was enacted; every subject was required to affirm the King's position as Head of the Church as well as the legitimacy of the Queen, Boleyn's daughter, Anne. It was a glorious moment for a man who'd spent all of his energy on such a lofty goal as the crown.

Katherine would have to take her oath in writing, as Henry's former, illegitimate wife, her submission was particularly important. Getting it in writing would both pacify the ignorant at court still clinging to the archaic way. As well as hurt her more as she signed everything over to Anne. Everything over to him. He smiled.

She asked to write in her native Spanish, claiming it was the only way her nephew, the Emperor, would accept her position – not as Queen but Duchess. Lord Wiltshire didn't care if she wrote upside down, so long as she signed the damn oath. And she did, under his icy eye her regal hand spelled out her end.

And she signed it plainly _Katherine_.

She then stood and made her exit.

"You've lost, Milady." He hissed as she passed, she turned her nose higher and carried by him. The Clerk brought him her oath, his Spanish not fluent but well enough. His jaw dropped.

_You've lost Milady._

Not by a long shot.


	49. 48 Found

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Boleyn/ Katherine of Aragon

* * *

Prompt #48: Found

Thomas stood at the railing, hands in pockets looking out over the water to where grey met grey. The grey sky and the grey ocean made the horizon disappear. He looked but didn't really see, fog swirling like his thoughts.

"What are you looking for?" a voice asked. He didn't jump, didn't turn. He'd felt her before she spoke, a skill he had – but it only worked on her.

"Don't know." He truthfully replied. She stood beside him at the rail looking out on the grey as well. Her proximity, near touch, soft sent – He found what he didn't know he was looking for.


	50. 49 Sunrise

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Henry Tudor/ Anne Boleyn

* * *

Prompt #49: Sunrise

Fingers of sunlight caressed her trough a small gap in her curtains. She tried to ignore it but the sun persisted turning from soft pink of new birth above the horizon to the warm, bright yellow of day. It would not be ignored. Anne stretched, slowly opening her eyes – giving in to the rays' demands of "awake."

Henry stood at their window, his hand the breach in the curtains dark defenses. She smiled happily, each sunrise with him was proof the night before was not a dream – a magnificent, glorious play of her subconscious. He loved her. The King loved her.

"Ah, sweetheart." He turned from the view to smile at her, the light of the sun reflecting in his eyes. "I thought the sunrise was the most beautiful thing and then you awoke and I find myself mistaken."


	51. 50 Sunset

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – Katherine of Aragon  
Note: This was written in England during a ten day family vacation in the summer of 2009.

* * *

Prompt #50: Sunset

Katherine sat in silence after Mendoza left, her face betrayed nothing of her thoughts; it was enveloped in the well practiced mask of her regal position. His words of support warmed her, as did the promise of his replacement. Eustace Chapuys. If anyone was qualified to help her it was he.

The sun was red and low in the sky, it would soon be below the trees and then the horizon. The sun was setting on another English day as well as an English Queen.

Even with the Pope finding in her favor, as he would, and the whore Anne Boleyn cast from court, Katherine knew that her career was over. She would still be Queen, but she would have no power. No influence. Henry would tell her nothing, and listen to nothing.

The sun was setting on another English day as well as on the reign of an English Queen.

* * *

_Note II: Half way there! Thank you so very much to all of you for making it this far with me. To all my reviewers - you are my heroes, I've never felt so loved! Same to those who put me down as a favorite or alerts, I'm happy that you think I'm worth it._

_**Tilts at Windmills** not only do I adore your name but I am very honored that you like my Cromwell/ Elizabeth, I adore Trick of the Light. Fear not **Boleyn Girl13 **and **cocorocks**, in regards to 'Truth'. Margaret might walk out on Eustace but she isn't going to move out, it's just the standard misunderstanding a la every romantic comedy ever._

_Some of you have mentioned your favorite prompts, which I find interesting, because some of you are liking stories that I completely disregarded. My personal favorites are: Lies, Villain, Hero, Drink, Food, Dinner, Shy, Love, Hate, Fear, Affection, Spirit, Green, Orange, and Hair, as well as a few in the 'coming soon' category. Be on the look out for Taste, Thunder, and Lovers._

_Speaking of Lovers, I have a **warning** for you all, the next fifty prompt will not be rated T. I have not written all of my prompts yet but the ones I've complete contain some very strong language and sexual content. Granted, it's rather tame next to the actual showtime show, but I thought you should know. I don't want to loose any of you, my dear readers, but I also don't like censorship. I'll warn you before any smut but language you'll just have to handle. If I loose anyone - I'm sorry, and I've enjoyed writing for you._

_So there you have it, another long note for another short bit.  
_


	52. 51 Middle

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Wolsey/ Joan Larke

* * *

Prompt #51: Middle

King Henry the Eighth paused momentarily to once again congratulate himself on his good fortune. He was absolutely marvelous, if he did say so himself, which he did – often. And now it was time for someone else to say it as well, namely Wolsey.

He raised a large hand to knock on the Cardinal's chamber door, in his haste to proclaim his success had forgone a servant to announce him; the Cardinal was properly humble before him, no formality of power needed. But before his perfect knuckles could lay sound to the fine wood of the palace door he was stopped by a voice. A female voice.

"Thomas – it's huge!" Henry knew Wolsey had two children by a woman named Joan, but that was long ago, he'd been sure that if Wolsey still kept her as a mistress it was for companionship and companionship alone. A groan told him he was very much mistaken. He lowered his hand, recoiling in disgust.

"I can't help it Joan." Wolsey replied, "It's not my fault." Henry took a step back from the door.

"It very well can be helped, Thomas, it's not natural, it's not healthy." Henry would _never_ be able to look at his chief minister the same way again. His mouth fell open as a rustle of fabric, a mutter of 'hard as a rock', and a groan reached his regal ears.

"Ahhhh!" Thomas Wolsey raised his head from his folded arms.

"Did you hear something?"

"Don't change the subject." Joan said authoritatively, prodding an extremely tight knot with a not so gentle hand making him wince. She was perched on his hips as he lay face down on their bed his back bare so that her angelic hands could work their miracle on his tense back.

"How in heaven's name can you amass so much tension? I worked on your back just last week!"

"The usual way – insomnia, work, worry, court politics, church politics…" Joan pressed firmly on another knot making him swear.

"God's wounds woman!"

"You need to take better care of yourself Thomas." It was their favorite argument of late.

"You're not my mother Joan." He felt her lay atop him, her breasts pressing to his should blades, lips near his ear.

"No, but I love you."


	53. 52 Cry

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Wolsey/ Joan Larke

_Note: This is a continuation of Prompt 22 Guilt, it could be read separate but I might suggest rereading Guilt first.

* * *

_

Prompt #52: Cry

Joan entered their room,

"Thomas, who was that girl?" his greeting died on his lips at her words. Joan and his almost - whore had met, God had a twisted sense of humor.

"She brought us a meal." He offered, holding up an orange, hoping that she would believe him.

"With her corset undone?" she crossed her arms, Wolsey sighed, he always hated this part, it broke his heart.

"Francis sent her; he wanted to make sure my every need was taken care of." He put aside his quill. "Please believe me Joan, I sent her out right away." She nodded but did not say anything, tears welling in her brown eyes.

"I know you did Thomas, I trust you." She said, "But it is so hard…" her voice broke and so did he. "It is so hard some times… to - to be with you. To be your whore." Wolsey stood and circled his desk determinedly, taking her in his arms he held her tightly, the first of her tears falling on his robes.

"You," He said firmly, "You are not my whore, you are my wife. Joan, you are my wife. I would rather die than have you ever question that. Often I regret not marrying you in the conventional way, in moments like these I would gladly give up the cloth and take you as the lay do – so all the world could see, could know how much I love and care for you. How much I respect you." He felt his own eyes mist as he held her, guilt creeping in deeper for all that he had deprived her. All that he had forced her into. All that he made her hide. Slowly she pulled back, her damp face smiling up at his damp face.

"Look at us, two old fools crying for no good reason." She reached up and dried his eyes; he took her hands in his.

"Joan, you know it pains me to see you upset-"

"I know it does Thomas, but if I was truly displeased I would have left, don't doubt that for a moment. This life is hard, I am over come by that some times, but I would not trade it and I would not change it." She looked him in the still teary eyes. "I love you." He threw his arms around her and held her close, crying for a second time, this time out of shear rapture. What, pray, did he do to deserve her?


	54. 53 Laugh

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.

Paring: Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell

* * *

Prompt #53: Laugh

Thomas knew it was to be one of those evenings when he found Elizabeth in just her chemise, curled, as best she could at seven months pregnant, in the fetal position before their bedroom mirror, sobbing.

"Elizabeth!" he cried, joining her on the floor, "What is the matter?"

"I'm fat!" She wailed. "I'm fat and I'm ugly and – and I can't poop!" her voice cracked in despair.

_Do. Not. Laugh. Do _not_ laugh._

"No, you're pregnant." Thomas said, cradling her in his arms. She shook her head.

"I'm ffffat."

"Pregnant."

"Fat."

"Pregnant." he wasn't sure why he bothered arguing with her about this. Before she was pregnant her logic was thin at times. When fathers complained that pregnancy stole their wife's sanity they weren't joking.

"Look at me Thomas!" Elizabeth exclaimed, ripping herself from his arms and standing before the mirror, tears streaming down her cheeks, "I'm a cow! M-m-moooooooo!"

_Do. Not. Laugh._

Thomas stood and his arms reclaimed her.

"Listen to me Elizabeth, you are beautiful."

"No I'm not!" She cried into his chest, "You're ju-just saying that." He turned her so she faced the mirror, back to his chest and with expert fingers removed the last of her clothing.

She closed her eyes tightly.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she whimpered.

"I am simply showing you what you are clearly not seeing." He replied, "Now open your eyes and see what _I_ see." Slowly she did.

He held her tightly, resting his chin on her shoulder, his clothed arms around her the only fabric on her body. His hands rested protectively on the swollen bump that was their child.

Her stomach was larger, as were her breasts, the look in his dark eyes told her he didn't mind that at all – especially not the second part. His hot gaze warmed her. He still loved her. He still wanted her. But how?

"So many other husbands take another when their wives look like me." His heart broke.

"I am not other husbands, and you are not those wives." His heart healed at he smile. She turned in his arms and kissed that spot along his jaw that she knew drove him wild.

It wasn't fair. He was already aroused by the sight of her bare before him. If she had not been with child she would be a well and thoroughly loved woman at this moment. But she was pregnant. His excitement pressed against the bump as he hissed,

"Elizabeth." She pulled back, flush pink all over.

"Oh Thomas, I'm sorry." She giggled, "I should not have started what I cannot finish." He took a deep breath.

"Do you still doubt your beauty and my desire for you?" she kissed his cheek.

"I never should have."

"Do you feel better now?" she gave him one of her beautiful smiles and gathered her chemise.

"Yes, thank you." She said, leaving him to get a hold of himself.

"Well, that makes exactly one of us." He muttered looking down at his protruding desire.


	55. 54 Too Much

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell

* * *

Prompt #54: Too Much

"Know what your problem is? You talk too much." Elizabeth said talking two fist fulls of his shirt and ripping. "Little less conversation, little more action." He smiled and shucked the now tattered blouse.

"Yes ma'm."

*

"I love you." Elizabeth whispered breathy as she lay nestled to him a time later.

"You took the words right out of my mouth." He replied resting his forehead against hers. Her kiss swollen lips curled into a soft smile, she cupped his cheek.

"Must've been while you were kissing me." She pressed her lips to his again, reigniting the fire in his blood.

* * *

_Note: I have decided to take requests. Go to my profile and vote for your favorite couple. The winning pair will be featured, for sure, in prompt 99 'Moon', but who knows, the results might inspire me to do something before that. This poll will close August 5__th__, 2009._


	56. 55 Not Enough

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – Anne Boleyn  
Note: This was written in England during a ten day family vacation in the summer of 2009. _Note II: This is another one of my favorites.

* * *

_

Prompt #55: Not Enough

"I love you. I love you so much!" You mean it. On the Blood of Christ you mean it. You plead with him, you beg, you beseech. Elizabeth clings to you as you run after him. But the line of his back, each and every step is pain and truth.

"Your Majesty!" you call. He does not turn. "I. Love. You!" He fades from sight and you know. You know as surely as if your own heart was ripped from your breast.

You love him. But it is not enough.


	57. 56 Enemies

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Philip of Bavaria/ Mary Tudor (Angst)

* * *

Prompt #56: Enemies

"It would never work," Mary lamented to her German Queen, a kind woman despite her flaws, "he is a Lutheran, I am a Catholic." By all accounts they should be bitter enemies. He was of the antagonist faith, a betrayer of God. And only a Duke in Germany, she was the first born child of the King of England and a Spanish Princess. Opposite sides of a channel, opposite sides of right and wrong. He was her enemy. Her father disproved of him. No matter his charm, no matter his wit, his intelligence, his handsome features or romantic soul. No matter the pull he had on her heart.

She should hate him, her enemy. But she didn't. She loved him.


	58. 57 Friends

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – The League of Extraordinary Gentlewomen

* * *

Prompt #57: Friends

Once Upon a Time… in a land long ago and far away there lived six women. Six great women. Six close friends.

There was Katherine of Aragon, a Spanish Princess and an English Queen. She was a brilliant politician, a devout woman, and a loyal friend. For nearly twenty years she had her husband, Henry VIII, King of England, around her long fair finger. She could plant the seed of her idea and allow Henry to think it was his own, thusly insuring that what she wanted she got. Those two decades were heaven for England and their Monarchs.

Despite all appearances, Katherine was very good friends with a woman named Joan Larke. Joan was not a princess, not even of high birth, and not educated, save for in ways of the home. She was the daughter of a lodging house keeper; she worked as a maid and a cook until she met a man of the cloth, Thomas Wolsey. They lived together ever since, despite Thomas's vows of poverty and chastity. Joan was a kind woman, salt of the earth, she had her way with her mate because of his devotion, and the fact that not only did Wolsey need a lover, he needed a mother. Someone to care for him, someone to stay with him past his outburst, and every bone in Joan's body was the maternal kind.

Joan introduced Katherine to Elizabeth Cromwell, a young woman and the wife of the equally as young Thomas Cromwell. Cromwell was Wolsey's trusted secretary and friend. Elizabeth was a witty woman with a love of laughter and reading. She and Thomas had been children together and he listened to her as if he was listening to his own heart. A wise choice for she was a wise woman.

Katherine introduced them both to Alice More, wife of Thomas More. Thomas More was one of Henry's closest advisors and friends. Alice was his second wife, a good Catholic woman who hid a will of iron under a velvet exterior. She had a sharp legal mind, useful for to argue with Thomas More was to hold court over the issue. Her logic and determination kept More on the straight and narrow, although he would never know it.

These English women ran their country through running their spouses. But they were not alone.

Queen Claude of France knew how to run circles around her husband. And while Francis and Henry fought Katherine and Claude planned. Claude had more spies than Wolsey and more influence than Cromwell or More in her household. She was the reason her husband could keep his harem and not have the country fall down around his regal ears. She had a biting humor but a kind heart.

The youngest member of the League was Isabella of Portugal; she was married to Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor and Katherine's beloved Nephew. While Henry Tudor saw this as a slight of monstrous proportions Katherine saw it as a victory. Isabella was handpicked for Charles by Katherine and Claude, she was sweet, kind, well educated, and well bread, a true Princess and ready to be a true Queen. They also knew that Charles would love her. And that was the most important thing of all – Love.

* * *

_Note: TOMORROW THE RATING OF ODDMENTS WILL GO UP! Just thought you should know._


	59. 58 Lovers Short Version

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Boleyn/ Katherine of Aragon  
Note: This was written in England during a ten day family vacation in the summer of 2009.

* * *

Prompt #58: Lovers – Short Version

Her robe was suddenly too thin. She could feel the flush bloom over her neck and breasts, her body tightening like a string on a violin. He towered over, going beyond their natural height difference, a mix of wood, spice, and him made a heady mix and the room spin. His strong face hidden by shadows of the hall. His icy eyes smoldering with power. With control. With lust.

Tension mounted. The peg on the violin string turned. She was at a breaking point.

Snap.

His thin lips crashed into hers, not mouth taking, processing. His silver tongue breaching the fortress of her mouth and tasting, exploring the once forbidden terrain. He tasted of tainted wine, poisoned honey. She tore away.

"Satan's Bastard." She hissed. He crushed her against the wall, manhood hot against her stomach.

"Call me that again." He growled. She whimpered. His hands caressed her and like Eve and the apple betrayed God; her body betrayed her.

* * *

_I was explaining to someone my theory on love scenes, how a writer should write what the love, not what they think their audience wants, that means the scene can be as graphic or flowery as the writer imagines. I am well versed in love scenes it seems, my mother bought me my first trashy smut novel at age thirteen, incidentally my dad bought me beer in England – with parents like these who needs the internet to get corrupted? _

_The joke aside, I do have a… more intense/ edgier/ graphic version of this scene, which will be posted after this, if you do not want to read it please use your browser thing and continue to Prompt 59 and remain a smut virgin. _


	60. 58 Lovers Caveat Lector

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Boleyn/ Katherine of Aragon  
Note: This was written in England during a ten day family vacation in the summer of 2009.  
**Warning: This is the kind of stuff that will infect your soul, curve your spine, and keep the country from winning the war. Read at your own risk.

* * *

**

Prompt #58: Lovers

Her robe was suddenly too thin, yet the air was too hot. She was hot, she could feel the flush bloom over her neck and breasts as her body tightened like the string of a violin. He held her upper arms like his large hands were steel bands. He towered over her, going beyond their natural height difference in his dominance. The heady, woody smell that was his filled her senses and made her dizzy. The peg turned on the violin, tension grew. He looked down at her, strong face hidden by hall shadows, blue eyes smoldering with power. With control. With lust.

She drew a full, shaking breath, her breasts pressing to his solid chest. His brow quirked in a flash of silver. Tension mounted. The peg turned, it turned until she reached her breaking point.

*Snap*

His thin lips crashed into hers, hot mouth taking, possessing. His silver tongue breaching her lips and exploring the once forbidden territory. He tasted like tainted wine, poisoned honey. She struggled, she fought, but he held her firm, pining her arms with his hands, her body with his. His manhood pressed against her like a sword, a testament to his lust for power.

_No, no, no!_ Her mind screamed, intellectually she fought like a dog in a ring but her body betrayed her.

His mouth moved from hers to her neck, his hand weaving into her hair, cradling her skull, holding her captive as he nipped and sucked her pale neck. Marking her. Branding her. Claiming her as his and his alone.

"Satan's Bastard." She hissed in his ear, followed by every Spanish curse she could think of. He pulled his lips away slightly, mouth pressing to her ear, his cock, even harder pressing to her mound.

"Call me that again." He murmured, running his tongue along the shell of her ear. His free hand undid the laces of her nightgown, pushing it to pool, with ease, at her feet.

She could not but whimper.

His hands stoked a fire in her, a flame she was sure had gone out. He was just as warm. Just as alive. It had been so long. So long since she had been touched like this.

His hand moved to her breast, teasing the dusky nipple there firm and erect, his other hand moved to draw a sensually light tattoo over her stomach, which clenched against the sensation and her own response. She stood against the cold wall, hands fists as she fought. Fought against the sensory overload. She hated. She lusted. She despised this man. This agent of lies. His whore daughter and wicked, wretched family. The court faction that brought her here, and yet…

He moved to her other breast and then her navel, his hand lifting her leg, fingers caressing her pale thigh. He fell to his knees and her head fell back against the wall. Her entire body was shaking. Hooking her leg over his shoulder the Bastard Boleyn looked up at her, eyes like sapphires aglow. From the apex of her thighs he spoke, just a breath above her curls.

"I want you Katherine."

And like Eve betrayed God with an apple, her body betrayed her. His tongue plunged into her hot, wet core; her fingers buried themselves into his thick, white hair. She closed her eyes and, Christ forgive her, she gave in. Lust was all she saw, all she felt, all she knew. Sinful, exquisite lust.

His mouth was back on hers. She could taste herself on his lips. Tangy. Wrong. Compelling. She was crazed. She was possessed. She was pulling at his hair, pulling at his clothes. His coat, tunic, and chemise all discarded by her hand until there was only flesh for her to claw at. He had the body of a sportsman, despite his age and she felt every muscle of it, nails leaving marks of forbidden passion down his back. This was more potent than any relation with Henry ever was. Even when she was a virgin, unknown to desire, she never experienced what was controlling her now. It was a spell.

His large hands had unsheathed himself and were now firmly under her rounded backside, lifting her.

She jumped into his arms, her legs wrapping themselves around his narrow waist and firm rider's flanks. He laughed low in his throat; she could feel it vibrate under her lips as her mouth explored him.

Her back against the cold, smooth hall wall he thrust inside of her – deeply. Her voice slipped up in a cry octaves higher than she thought possible. He filled her to his hilt then pulled back before pushing forward again. A glorious sensation began humming through her veins. One she had felt with Henry but had never been allowed to explore, he would cum and the feeling would end. She was exploring it now with every thrust she was exploring. He was panting and sucking the pulse point in her neck as her heart beat faster than a thousand Spanish stallions. She was holding on to him with all her might.

"I hate you, I hate you." She panted between euphoric moans until there was not a coherent word, thought, or feeling to be had. Nothing but a scream as she came. Hard. An orgasm a blindingly new feeling. He was right behind her over the blissful cliff, bellowing. She clenched around him until the trembling stopped and he was dry. For a moment they remained entwined, he still inside of her, though he did pull back slightly. He looked down at her flushed face.

"I'm not that fond of you either, Princess." His lips curled in his signature sneer. Fire still in his eyes.


	61. 59 Family

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – Fatherly! Eustace Chapuys

* * *

Prompt #59: Family

"I would like to show the children their rooms." Chapuys said, "And get to know them a little on my own." Margaret nodded in the dutiful English wife way that was so popular amongst the court. Eustace hated it, but made no comment as he turned to her children. They looked away – frightened of him.

Merciful God, he had thought his marriage to Margaret would fix more problems than it would create. That had been a gross miscalculation. He squared his shoulders, he would over come this. Every problem had a solution.

"Go with his Excellency children, he has much to show you." Margaret instructed softly.

"You will not come with us Mother?" Young Henry asked.

"No, why would I? Tis his house to show you, I will wait in the library to hear of your tour."

His Excellency. His house. Eustace needed to have a talk with his new bride. In _their_ house he had no titles, save husband and perhaps father. He was not Ambassador Chapuys, just Eustace, plain and simple.

But that would have to wait; he had rooms to show off. Chapuys led the Roper Children up the stairs, painfully aware of their silence; he paused outside of a door.

"Henry, this is your room." He said motioning for the first born to open the door himself. The boy did, soberly. The room was huge, almost as large as the child's eyes when he saw it.

Tapestries depicting the Knights of the Round table and Camelot covered the walls, a bed shaped like a castle stood in the corner. A large floor rug provided room for him and his brother to wrestle.

"Thank you Excellency!" Henry exclaimed running into his new room in wonder, siblings hot on his amazed heels. Eustace sighed and entered the room, closing the door behind him. He sat down on the castle bed.

"Henry, Thomas, Katherine, join me, please." He could hear the joy leaving the room as with guilty, fearful faces his step children approached him.

He prayed for the right words.

"I love your mother very much, and I want very much for her to be happy. I also want you to be happy, I care about you. This is not 'my' house, this is our house – yours and mine and I wish for you to feel as comfortable as possible here. I am not your father, nor do I want to replace him, he was a good man and I know that you will always love him. I would ask nothing less of you. But I do ask that you allow me in your life, I would like to be here for you – to love you, if you let me, a second father if you need me. A friend, perhaps family. Is this pleasing to you?" he looked into each child's face as they earnestly thought, a touch of their Grandfather, Thomas More, in their expressions. And then slowly, ever so slowly each mutely nodded. Relief washed over Eustace, his heart swelled in his throat. It was a start.

"If we are to be a family you first must stop deferring to me as 'sir'. "Excellency" and "Ambassador" are my titles at court, not here. Here, in our home, I am simply Eustace, and it would please me if you were to call me that instead of some formal title. Will you do that?" _And maybe one day call me father._

The children nodded again and Eustace stood, a great weight lifted from his heart.

"Now, who wants to see their room?"


	62. 60 Strangers

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Eustace Chapuys/ Margaret More Roper

* * *

Prompt #60: Strangers

"I know that being away from your children is difficult, Margaret," Chapuys says quietly as we dine in his court apartments. I have never experienced such a life – such a meal in such a room. Even when my father had the King's favor he did not have an existence like this. I do not know how to behave, I hardly feel qualified to be here. I should take my supper in the kitchen I am so far below this station. But I am here. He is speaking to me. Marrying me. Why, I do not know. I may never know, his eyes reveal nothing, it makes him a handsome man and a good negotiator but a difficult heart to read.

"But I hope that a few short days in the country will not be too painful."

"Whatever you believe is best Excellency." I reply, my eyes lowered. He clicks his tongue and takes my hand, large fingers swallowing my own and forcing me to meet his eye.

"Eustace, Margaret, call me Eustace." He says firmly. How can I use a term of familiarity when we are still but strangers?


	63. 61 Teammates

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – The Boys  
_Note: This is one of my least favorites.

* * *

_

Prompt #61: Teammates

They had been a team, the four of them. The Dream Team. Henry, Charles, Anthony, William. In the beginning they ruled the court, life was free and easy. Compton was the first to go, his death a blow to the dynamic. His kindness, humor, and even temper was the glue that kept the friends together for Charles often did not think with his head, Henry was a man of impulses, and Anthony was a man of so few word. Compton kept them all amused.

Tony left shortly after William died. The mood was heavy and between the new religion, the new Queen, the soon to be dead Queen, and the new Queen again he found that he could neither speak against the king nor stand the court. He retired away to the country with his wife turning a game of doubles into a single's match. Brandon and Tudor the only mates left.

It was only a matter of time before the team dissolved. Not only was it down player but the game changed.

* * *

_Glad to see that everyone survived 'Lovers' and the number of people who have voted in my poll, remember it will remain open until August 5__th__, so if you have not voted please do._

**Boleyn Girl13**, _glad you like the League, I'm pretty sure they'd adore you. As for the Anne part, I doubt she and I would be friends but that scene breaks my heart regardless_. **Theothertudorgirl**, _I'm pleased I got you to clap for Wolsey, it's what I aim to do, I am also very relieved that Thomas/ Elizabeth hasn't gotten on anyone's nerves yet. As to Ms. Howard, wait and see, all I can say is ask and ye may receive…_ **Jnstar86**, _I feel as if I've done my job as a writer if I can make you like a character just a little bit more than before. It warms my heart to know that people are liking Elizabeth._ **Tilts at Windmills**, _I think you've figured out that I *heart* Cromwell too, but Joan and Wolsey are a close second, same goes for _**rocks-my-socks**,_ I'm glad we have the same taste in pairings. :D._


	64. 62 Parents

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Wolsey/ Joan Larke

* * *

Prompt #62: Parents

A plate whizzes by my ear and shatters against the wall.

"I will not be sent away like some pregnant whore!" she screams.

"It's not shame – its safety!" I roar back. A glass meets the same fate as the plate.

"I can take care of myself!" Her eyes are spitting brown hellfire and her entire body is heaving – full bosoms to nine months round stomach. Our first child is due in a week. With its birth she'll move to Ipswich, my childhood home while I remain at court.

It is not an issue of shame, as it slays me to hear her accuse, but an issue of safety. The court can be so cruel and I would rather die than expose her or our child to that kind of malice.

"Damnit woman, it's not about you anymore! It's you and the child and I will see you both safe if it's the last thing I do!" I throw a glass down; I could never throw one at a woman, let alone the one carrying my child but the splintering of glass feels good at this moment.

Joan agrees because another plate comes sailing my way.

"Don't you dare say I am not thinking of this child." The voice of Satan himself rips from her throat as another glass shatters by my head. Never in my life have I seen someone so upset.

"I am always thinking of this child and living with its father – as a family – is the best thing. We will be fine here -"

"You can't be sure of that." She sends a look my way that scares me more than any army or daemon. A look that says she will kill anything that threatens her child. Destroy it with her bare hands.

And then everything changed. Her eyes grew large, her bow mouth dropped into and 'O', all of the anger is gone from her.

"My water broke." She says. At first I don't comprehend the words. Her water broke – as in labor? She wasn't due for another week. We were fighting, I look down and sure enough there is a puddle around her feet. Her dress is wet; it'd be quite funny if she wasn't having the baby NOW.

Mother Fennel returns with the babe in swaddling clothes, she places her in Joan's arms – there is nothing more beautiful than this moment. Beautiful isn't even the right word. There is no word for this moment. There is just this indescribably feeling of joy.

"Hello little one." Joan whispers, am I crying or is she? "I'm your mum." We're both crying.

"And I'm your dad." I say.

"We're very glad you're here." The girl smiles a gummy smile.

All too soon she is returned to the crib. I sit beside Joan.

"She's perfect."

"Of course she is." She says - delivery slow with exhaustion. It's hard to believe that fourteen hours ago she was lobbing plates at my head. "She's my daughter." I smile.

"You're going to spoil her rotten."

"Not nearly as much as you are."


	65. 63 Children

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Eustace Chapuys/ Margaret More Roper  
Note: This was written in England during a ten day family vacation in the summer of 2009. _Elinor Potter once again saves the day!

* * *

_

Prompt #63: Children

"Papá!" A dark haired ball of energy bounded into the room, filling it with light and laughter, Eustace sends me a look, it is short, for the petite flash is soon upon him, jumping into his arms, her arms flung around his neck. He wraps her in a strong embrace, lifting her off the ground and swinging her around in a circle. I have never seen him quite as happy as she plants a very loud kiss on his smooth cheek. He gently sets her on the ground, holding her at arms length, his dark eyes sweep over her and I can see the pride in them. I can also see the distinctive bump of pregnancy and the body of a woman who could quite possibly be my age. Eustace is several years my senior, I always knew that, but his child – this woman really makes me think of it.

And then he takes my hand.

"Maria, _mi niña, mi amor_, _te presento a mi esposa Margaret1_." I smile although I'm not entirely sure what he is saying, Latin I understand fluently. Spanish? Eustace understands, he always understands. He knows me almost as well as I know myself, amazing since our marriage has been so short.

"Meg, this is my daughter-"

"Maria, _encantada_." She, Maria is lovely, olive completed like her father, her hair dark and curly, her eyes the same soft brown that I married. I curtsy, she returns the formality before throwing her arms around my neck. I stiffen as her shoulder and bone crushing hug knock the breath from me.

"Mami!" She says stepping back to look me over with those perceptive brown eyes she holds my hands and speaks quickly with a slight accent but perfect syntax. "I am so glad to meet you! Roberto and I were so worried my father would live the rest of his days with only the English Court to keep him company." How pray, do I respond. My mind is not working at full capacity, I don't understand. I just met this woman and I am Mami? I assume it means mother. And she is pregnant? God grant me a moment of clarity.

"Roberto?" I finally manage.

"_Esposo_!" she says, energetic and lively in all things. A man appears behind her, tall, dark, carrying two small children. I can feel my jaw dropping.

"Charles, Rosalita - _Vengan a conocer a su nueva abuela2_!" Roberto, the father places the children on the ground, the little boy could not be older than six, his sister a few years younger. He takes his sister's small hand and they toddle to me, their brown eyes big, bright and inherited from their mother – who got them from her father. Eustace. These are his – our…

"Grandmamma!" the little boy exclaims wrapping my legs in a hug. His mother and father beam.

"His first English word!" Eustace praises.

"Grandmamma?" I feel faint.

* * *

_1 Maria, my daughter, my love I present you my wife, Margaret  
2 Charles, Rosalita - come meet your new Grandma_


	66. 64 Winter

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas More/ Katherine of Aragon  
Note: This was written in England during a ten day family vacation in the summer of 2009.

* * *

Prompt #64: Winter

Thomas tucked a lock of his wife's hair behind her fair ear, enjoying the silken feeling as his fingers traveled through the ink colored strands. They stopped however when she shivered, as if unhinged by this simple touch.

"Katherine, what is it?" he asked, pulling away to look down at not her lovely face, but a stoic, stately mask that resembled it. She looked up at him.

"Nothing, Thomas, dear, it is nothing." Her eyes were lying.

"Do not tell me things that are not true because you think they please me. What is wrong?" More said, his tone kind but words earnest. His lovely Queen pausing, thinking – clearly unused to telling the truth about her feelings. He waited, idly stroking her thin hand, until she pulled away, taking a deep breath.

"You are so warm with me Thomas." She said softly.

"Warm?"

"Affectionate, caring, true. Henry was colder, more distant as I aged. My marriage to him became like a marriage to winter." _Henry was a fool._ Thomas decided as he took Katherine's face in his hands and kissed her.

"Let me be your summer." He whispered.


	67. 65 Spring

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – Kathryn Howard

* * *

Prompt #65: Spring

She was like the spring, so young, so fresh, full of life and promise. As delicate as a flower and as beautiful as its first bloom. A life before her prime, she was green, still a child, innocent as unturned soil.

Yet like a sapling cut down while still malleable she was dead before the ax man took her on that scaffold. Snapped off before she could grow, it was only a matter of time before she withered and died. She flourished and blossomed before dying as quickly.

Spring – rebirth, renewal, green, growth. Spring – lost potential, a wilted blossom, tragedy.

* * *

_Ms._ othertudorgirl_, I admittedly wrote this before your request, but as I post it I think of you. And to _katherineofaragonfan_ you may be receiving a HenKat surprise later one. _Boleyn Girl13_, being pregnant is awful, but pregnant women are a blast to write!_


	68. 66 Summer

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Wolsey/ Joan Larke  
_Note: Another favorite

* * *

_

Prompt #66: Summer

She had met him in the summer of her life, a shy nineteen, a cook and a maid, untouched by anything save a desire for love and the longing for a life away from her parents, away from her repressive small town, away from all but a man who loved her.

And then she met him. Quiet churchman on a mission from the King, young and handsome. They met under a canopy of fresh leaves as the first summer that she truly lived – truly loved unfolded. As the season bloomed so too did their love until they stood under the same canopy, shining crimson and gold and he whispered with a dry voice of his love. He vowed, that first summer, that he would love her with each beat of his heart for as long as his heart continued to beat.

For the next thirty summers she stayed by his side. Their first child conceived in the season, the second born. Both married in their parents' months, and it was the summer that brought Hampton Court alive with the joy of children and grandchildren.

It was in the summer that they took him. Ripped him from her arms but not from her heart. It was in the summer that he died, as did her spirit. And when the season faded so did she, never to see another summer without him by her side.

* * *

_Note II: I know it was winter that killed Wolsey but if_ The Tudors _can show him committing suicide I say I can have him killed off in summer._


	69. 67 Fall

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Henry Tudor/ Katherine of Aragon

* * *

Prompt #67: Fall

Young Henry Tudor shivered in the damp autumn wind as he watched the large boat. He did not want to be there, he had far better things to do than await the gracious presence of his brother's future wife. She was taking way to long and he was simply ten, there was much playing to be done. He would be as sickly as Arthur if he stayed out in the weather in this ridiculous dublet, but Arthur was the favorite and so instead of him awaiting his bride Henry had to. Not fair. Not fun.

The door slowly opened as did Henry's mouth. She was gorgeous. He was in love. Inky hair shining unbound in the weak fall sun. Her eyes like the sky. Arthur was the favorite. Arthur got the beautiful princess, Henry got a church. Not fair.

* * *

_Well, _**katherineofaragonfan_, _**_I tried, admittedly I have a hell of a time writing HenKat because I keep wanting to kick Henry's ass instead of being romantic._


	70. 68 Sight

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Boleyn/ Katherine of Aragon

* * *

Prompt #68: Sight

The egten softly illuminated the bedroom, not enough to wake the sleeping princess within, but enough that her slumbering, full figure might easily be discerned amongst the bedding and early morning.

He studied her, slumbering, the only time he could get close to her. She was so venerable in sleep, a perfect, peaceful angel in hell. He was her hell, and yet as she slept he wanted to save her from it. His icy eyes warmed as they swept over her. Smooth and pale petal soft, rest erased the worry from her regal face, as if he was looking back in time. A single coal black curl marked the white expanse of her high cheekbone. He desperately wanted to push it away, tuck it behind her delicate ear. Feel the smoothness of her lavender scented skin under his rough fingertips but he did not. He could look but not touch. Never touch. For if he touched her as she slept feelings otherwise hidden away would be revealed. The foundation of all this plans, plots, hopes, and goals would crumble.

And so he caressed her with his eyes instead. From her face his eyes traveled to her neck, the circular bruise of his lips a testimonial to his affection for the pale column. He loved her neck - the domination he achieved by possessing it, the rush of her pulse under his touch. Her shoulders were strong and well proportioned to her hips, they bore Atlas' burden with statuesque grace. Her full breasts were the product of many pregnancies, as well as the extra weight around her arms, legs, and middle. Fat and sow like he might claim but in truth he appreciated her soft, full figure and beautiful curves, often hidden by unflattering Spanish fashion. If she were to adopt the French styles she would be displayed the way a woman should - as a work of art to be admired and appreciated. And yet in the morning like this Boleyn found himself wishing to put her in a habit each time they went to court - so that none but he may know the joys of her flesh.  
She shifted a little in her sleep, morning's first light bothersome and displeasing to her. He hardened his eyes, pushing the bud of affection out of sight as the sleeping angel awoke.

* * *

_I admit it, I got lazy, and instead of banging out a second prompt to follow this I spent my weekend drawing pretty dresses, which will be up on both my live journal and flickr account shortly, I've only up loaded one thing thus far, a picture of Elizabeth Cromwell, flickr also has a second picture of Elizabeth, a scene from 'Snarled Laces' and a random bit of Thomas/ Elizabeth. The newest link is:_

_www(dot)flickr(dot)com(slash)photos(slash)parrottgal(slash)3782324999(slash) _

_The other links are posted in a previous chapter. My livejournal is parrottgal(dot)livejournal(dot)com. It has bigger pictures. Dresses for Elizabeth and Joan should be up tomorrow as well as a picture of 'Villains', Dorothy Wynter Larke Wolsey and father, as well as Katherine Roper Chapuys and Eustace. Like I said all weekend with my colored pencils and reading Diary's 'Heels, Needles, and a Cross' – Great Wolsey/ Joan story! Her 'Wishing to Submit' is also very good… but for a completely different reason ;)_


	71. 69 Sixth Sense

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Boleyn/ Katherine of Aragon

* * *

Prompt #69: Sixth Sense

Thomas Boleyn believed in that which he could obtain, things through which his senses his mind registered. If he could not see it, smell it, hear it, taste it, touch it he did not believe it. He did not let it rule him, he was dictated by his faculties, his capabilities he never doubted… until recently.

He could feel her before they touched, her warmth penetrating him no matter how far from her he stood, without looking he knew what expression her lovely face bore, he did not need to hear her to know her mind. Lavender followed him where ever he went, the taste of her stayed on his tongue no matter eating drinking or avoiding her. She was following him; she clouded his once keen senses.

What she felt he felt as if their souls were bound with bands of steel, her pain was his, as was her sorrow, her joy. His cutting words cut himself. He knew her as if he knew himself, he knew no one better, not his first wife, not his children. He knew Her and only her. She boggled his mind and ensnared his senses, there was no escaping her hold.

* * *

_Point katherineofaragonfan, I do remember a discussion of Katherine's clothes in one of the biographies I read of Henry's wives, that fact actually bothered me all day at work, and I work in a cornfield so I had a lot of time to dwell… but yeah, I'd like to think the idea is still conveyed…_


	72. 70 Smell

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Eustace Chapuys/ Margaret More Roper

* * *

Prompt #70: Smell

She sits in his chair, knees tucked up under her chin wrapped in a tiny ball and his coat, the brown fur one, the one that sort of makes him look like a bear. Her nose is pressed into the soft fur, tears dampening it. She misses him, she never thought she'd miss him like she does. Longing has eaten away her insides and reduced her to the shaking, sobbing, sniffing woman she is. Wrapped in his cloak a poor substitute for his arms but it smells like him, a slight comfort. Soft, warm, with the scent of ginger and amber and him clinging to the fabric. If she buries her nose deep enough and closes her eyes it is almost as if the notes are him, her nose in his chest, his arms enveloping her. But she opens her eyes and finds herself alone in his office again. She cries, wrapping the coat tighter around her, his sent and promise of a swift return the only thing keeping her going.


	73. 71 Sound

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Paring: None – The League of Extraordinary Gentlewoman  
_Note: Some of you might recognize a certain line from Doctor Madwoman; it was how I knew we would be friends.

* * *

_

Prompt #71: Sound

Joan Larke gave her sovereign and friend a mischievous smile from over the rim of her glass.

"I'll, um, take him in hand." She said. From the floor Elizabeth Cromwell piped up, she was laying on her back, hands tucked behind her head, relaxing on the plush rug.

"Well I wouldn't touch him with a ten foot lance! At least not for a month. Censoring Katherine's letters – Phui - Who does he think he is?" Joan looked from the youngest member of the group to one of the eldest.

"Well, my dear," she said, gleam in her big brown eyes growing, "I leave it to you, how do we handle this transgression – Carrot or Stick?" For a perilous moment, Thomas Wolsey's sex life hung in the balance as Katherine considered her companion's words. She sipped her wine and a thought curled her full lips.

"I think I will leave Wolsey to you Joan, you and your… creativity." Joan's auburn eyebrow quirked.

"Oh, I like the sound of _that_."


	74. 72 Taste

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell  
_Note: This is part two of Prompt 43: Lies, you might want to reread that first. Also, I took a cutting of this to make Prompt 2: Eyes.

* * *

_

Prompt #72: Taste

Thomas looked around the empty bedchamber, including the space under his bed. Twice. She was not there. After their argument Thomas had remained in his office, it gave his beloved time to cool down and himself time to think. She had said some strong things. It was not the words so much that hurt, they were just sentences, subject, verb, occasionally an adjective. It was her eyes as she said those things. There was no light in them, no life. He knew that he was the cause of her distress. Her disappointment in him hurt more than the cry of "Foul!" ever could. Not only was she upset, she had every reason to be. She was disappointed in him, and he was disappointed in himself. He had confessed and begged God for mercy. It was now time to ask the same thing of his wife.  
But she was not there.

"Boy!" Cromwell called into the hall outside of his rooms. Caleb, one of his servants came.

"Yes sir?" He asked cautiously, Caleb was a young boy, tall, awkward, unsure of himself. But he was a hard worker, and very discreet. A good thing considering some of the run ins the boy had had with his wife.

"Have you seen Elizabeth?" The boy paused, "Lady Cromwell." Thomas pressed; he was so used to using her Christian name that her formal title sounded strange.

"Ah, yes, she said she was feeling ill and was returning home. She asked me to give her apologies to his Majesty, for you were to sup with the King and the Lady Jane tonight, yes?" Returning home?

"When did she leave?" He asked, for once in a long time not fixated on the meeting with the King.

"Wh-" The boy asked, clearly surprised that that fact was what the Secretary inquired after. Thomas wanted to shake the servant until his teeth fell out.

"My wife! When did my wife leave?"

"About two hours ago, I called for a boat myself. She looked very ill, sir, in fact she looked so very ill I asked if I should send for you. She said that she simply wanted to go home. I thought you knew sir." Thomas got a grip on himself.

"Thank you for taking care of her, I knew she felt unwell I did not know how truly unwell she felt. Would you inform his Majesty that I too will not be at dinner, I should be with my wife." The boy nodded and Thomas gave him a polite smile as he left. The second he was gone however the Secretary swore. And swore again. In a flash he was to his horse, not a thought in his head but getting to Elizabeth and making things right.

Thomas reached Putney in under an hour, a feat considering the twelve miles of road, his horse was in high froth by the time he reached the stable but he did not care. Just as he did not notice the look of surprise on the stable boy's face as he threw him the reigns and rushed into the house.

Dark.

The house was dark, not a fire or a candle lit in the entire home, if it wasn't for the discarded wrap and hood at the door Thomas would be unaware that his wife was home. He picked up the wrap, her distressed fury seemingly woven into the fabric. He hung it and his own cloak up before quietly moving through the house. The sun was low in the sky, about to set, blocked by the tall buildings on the horizon. Yet the rays provided enough illumination that he did not feel the need to light a candle. He knew his home.

Elizabeth was not in the kitchen, nor the living room. His office or Gregory's room.

Outside of their bedroom he heard her, she was sobbing, the sound muffled by the heavy door but distinctive none the less. His heart broke.

He opened the door. The room was almost as dark as night, the thick velvet curtains drawn against the last of the sun, no fire lit the grate. It took a moment for his brown eyes to adjust to the darkness but they did in time and Thomas was able to make out the shape of his wife. She was in their bed, blankets drawn up around her, disproportionately fluffy from her farthingale; she had clearly not removed a stitch of clothing before cocooning herself in blankets and sorrow. He approached silently, only the top of her honey colored head poked above the quilts, it shook, along with the mass that was her body and skirts, like a wave on the ocean. She had not cried herself to sleep but she was trying.

"Go away." She had heard him although he made no noise; her voice was raw and husky, as painful to the ear as it was to the throat.

"Elizabeth." He said softly, she did not move, but spoke again from under the blankets.

"Go. Away." Thomas removed his boots and slid onto their bed, gathering his wife into his lap and arms. She struggled but was too tired to fight, eventually she resigned herself to the steel bands of his embrace and cried into his chest, her hand weakly slapping at his clavicle.

"Thomas, I don't know who you are any more. I never see you, I even moved to court, a place I do not enjoy past an hour." Hiccup. "And yet I still never see you. You've been eaten by work; you sleep with your desk more than with me." Sob. "I don't recognize you. I don't know you. There are times I'm not sure I like you. And Thomas I loved you. I loved you so much. But I don't see you any more. Even when you are in the room you are not Thomas." Sniff. "You're Mister Secretary. Master Cromwell. And… and… I don't like him!" she wailed. Her words were disjointed, their rhythm uneven, they were mumbled and too fast, he hardly understood half of it. And yet he knew exactly what she was saying.

He had changed. Work had changed him.

She didn't like it.

And neither did he.

He rocked her gently, stroking her hair and whispering soft comforts in her ear. He allowed her to purge until there was not a tear left in her body. He then just held her close, resting his cheek atop her head. And for a moment they were silent. For a moment they were just Thomas and Elizabeth. For a moment they were just as they used to be. But all moments must come to an end.

"Elizabeth, I am sorry. I am so sorry. I would rather go to the block than see you cry. I love you. I love you more than anything, save God and our children. It is my sincerest wish to never ever see you cry ever again. But I cannot see that fulfilled, I am no longer in a position in which that is within my power. I am no longer a man on my own. I must answer to the King. I must do what the King bids me. I am not Thomas Cromwell, I am Mr. Secretary. I do not like it. And I despise that it displeases you but there is nothing I can do. It is too late. This is my new path. And I need you with me on it. I need you by my side. You are my strength, you are my guide, you are all that is good in the world. Please help me. I cannot live without you. And I cannot live if you are unhappy." He said feeling his throat go raw with emotion, tears filling his dark eyes.

"Please… Elizabeth." He whispered. She slowly pulled away from his chest and looked up at him, her cheeks as wet as his, full bottom lip quivering. Her slim hand reached to wipe away his tears but he caught it in his own callused fingers. Instead he took her face in his hands and wiped away her tears before kissing her. The salt of many tears was still on her lips as they kissed but the kiss did not taste of sorrow.

It tasted of hope.

* * *

_Note II: Voting for 99 Moon will end tomorrow (August 5__th__) around nine or ten pm central standard time… if I remember, so If you have not voted this is your last chance Harvy._


	75. 73 Touch

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Boleyn/ Katherine of Aragon  
Note: This was written in England during a ten day family vacation in the summer of 2009. _Warning – language.

* * *

_

Prompt #73: Touch

Boleyn's large; villain's paw closed around her hand in a gesture that, to the untrained eye, seems affectionate, as loving as any husband would be towards his wife. Her skin crawled.

"Here comes the King, Katherine – _wife_, try to look happy." He whispered, lips just a breath from her ear, his other arm wrapping around her shoulder, hand moving under her hair to her slim neck.

"Impotent cunt." She hissed back. His lips twisted and he rested his forehead to her temple, gently squeezing her neck – dominating her.

"Oh Katherine," he hissed, "Such sweet nothings."


	76. 74 Time

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Eustace Chapuys/ Margaret More Roper

* * *

Prompt #74: Time

He takes my face in his large, capable, Spanish hands and I cannot suppress my quaking. It is our wedding night, I know what is expected of me and yet I cannot. I just can't – yet I must, it is my husband's right. Eustace lowers his lips to mine, this kiss is sweet and chaste and fleeting but I still shutter.

If I had slapped him I think I would have hurt him less, I can see that in his eyes when he pulls back. The pain reflected there… I look away. Oh Lord, Oh Husband William, Oh Father – mine! Give me strength to be a good and proper wife.

Two blunt fingers gently under my chin turn my eyes to his. A new light shines there. I cry, I cannot help myself. I am a failure as a wife.

A soft Spanish curse reaches my ears and he gathers me to him, holds me as I shake and sob, a comforting hand on my back, another strokes my hair. He is a good man. Why, why am I a bad wife?

Once I stop my emotional purge of self loathing he pulls away, drying my eyes and making me look at him once more.

"Margaret, mi amour, do not cry, it pains me to see you do so."

"But Eustace, I am a failure as a wife!" He studies me; those wise, observant Spanish brown eyes study me.

"You are not a failure, my wife; do not ever think you are. You are simply overwhelmed at this moment, which is completely understandable. A man would have to be without heart to judge you." His kind words dry my tears but do not sooth my bitterness.

"I cannot-" I protest, why is he so kind?

"And I will not force you to, Margaret, I want you to be happy, it is my sincerest wish that you find contentment here with me and I will not rush you into that. I promise that I will not force you to do anything that you are not comfortable or ready to do. Do you understand me?" I nod, amazed at the man whom I have married.

"Thank you." I whisper, hugging him with all my heart.

* * *

_Note: The poll results are in! Thank you to everyone who voted, it looks like HenKat won the day with 25% of the vote. The rest of the couples shook out like this:_

_Henry VIII/ Katherine of Aragon: 5/20  
Thomas Boleyn/ Katherine of Aragon: 3/20  
Thomas More/ Katherine of Aragon: 3/20 (Boy, Kat sure gets around)  
Thomas Wolsey/ Joan Larke: 3/20  
Henry VIII/ Anne Boleyn: 2/20 (Not nearly as much as Henry however)  
Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Cromwell: 2/20  
Henry VIII/ Kathryn Howard: 1/20  
Philip of Bavaria/ Mary I: 1/20  
Eustace Chapuys/ Margaret More Roper: 0/20 (aw, poor them)  
Henry VIII/ Jane Seymour: 0/20  
Henry VIII/ Anne of Cleves: 0/20  
Henry VIII/ Catherine Parr: 0/20  
Other: 0/20_

_The new poll is just asking your favorite couple in general and is for pure cat killing purposes (curiosity), although, admittedly I'm on a writer's high and am laying the ground work for a second 'Oddments' series, it would have the same couples as this (plus more Philip/ Mary and introducing Knivert/ Anne of Cleves), if you have any prompt ideas drop me a line, or if one couple receives more votes than the other they might get more love. Thanks for participating!  
_


	77. 75 Hour

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Paring: None – The League of Extraordinary Gentlewoman

* * *

Prompt #75: Hour

Three women went unnoticed in the back of the packed courtroom, they sat straight, eyes watching the events unfold; they watched as a King tried his damnedest to rip apart not only his marriage but a country.

The Queen made her last stand, exiting the courtroom in a flurry of voices and demands, three women right behind her, their husbands watching as they too took a stand. The League of Extraordinary Gentlewomen may run the world but that was not why they formed. The League was truly just six women who were there for one another in their darkest hour.


	78. 76 Day

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas More/ Katherine of Aragon

* * *

Prompt #76: Day

Two beautifully bound books sat atop her bed magically appearing at her return from morning prayers. Curiously Katherine opened the top volume; familiar – Spanish poetry greeted her like an old friend. The second was more of the same.

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" Katherine called, "Do you know who left me these gifts?" Lady Darrell heeded her mistress's call appearing in the bedchamber door she replied,

"I do not My Lady." The Queen paused.

"Indeed, Thank you, Elizabeth."

*

"Thank you so much Henry, the books are beautiful, so perfect." Katherine beamed at her husband over their shared lunch; he gave her a sour look, one he'd adopted of late every time he looked at her.

"Books?" he scoffed.

"For my birthday, the Spanish poetry. I had almost forgotten the simple joy of reading in Spanish, thank you for that." She reached across the table and took his large hand in her small one, he recoiled as if she was the serpent in the garden.

"I got you no such gift! Why would I celebrate another year of this lie, another year in which you have aged and I have lived in sin! Katherine, we are not married, it would be improper for me to present you with such things." Katherine rose, the hurt his words caused her buried inside, robbing her of appetite, but she would not let them rob her of her dignity.

"Forgive me, _husband_, I am feeling unwell." As she left he called,

"Do NOT call me that!"

She was nearly to her rooms before a tear breeched her defenses, working its way down her pale cheek bitterly singing 'Happy Birthday Dear Katherine' as it progressed. And then she realized it was not the sound of her heart breaking that made the music but a voice behind her singing. She whirled, ready to send the musician to hell if she had to,

But it was no simple subject.

"Thomas," she breathed, whipping her eyes quickly, "What are you doing here?" in her palm he placed a kiss and a bookmark, only three words uttered.

"Happy Birthday, Catalina."


	79. 77 Week

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – Smitten! Princess Mary

* * *

Prompt #77: Week

Had it only been a week? He'd come in from Bavaria a whirlwind of speculation, a guest of the heretic bride chosen by Mr. Secretary. She'd been determined to hate him like the Lutheran he was. And yet…

He was so proper, kind, and handsome. Intelligent, well spoken. It did not excuse his believes, but the more she listened to him, the more she watched him the less she cared about anything other than his voice. His smile.

Then he was gone – her father disapproved of him and hated his cousin, the Queen, and the King sent them both packing. But along with his cloaks, his shirts, his affects Phillip took something else. Her heart.

Seven days with Phillip made one weak.

* * *

_Phillip of Bavaria was surely at court for longer than a week, but for the sake of the cliché let's just pretend he wasn't… s'lright? S'lright._


	80. 78 Month

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None - Any Mother, esp. Joan or Elizabeth, women in healthy relationships.  
Note: This was written in England during a ten day family vacation in the summer of 2009.

* * *

Prompt #78: Month

The first month she didn't 'miss' her monthly at all, although that was what the midwife asked a few months later. No, the first month she was completely, blissfully unaware that she carried a child.

The second month she was tired. Absolutely, utterly, bone tired. Just getting out of bed made her weak. The smells of cooking turned her green. And she still had not noticed the absence of Mother Nature's visitor.

The third month a midwife was summoned. He demanded it. She was so sick he feared for her life. Not only was she exhausted and green she had her head in a bucket every morning and evening. Nothing stayed down for long.

It was in the forth month they learned the truth. It wasn't death, it was a baby. She was pregnant.

In the fifth month she stopped so abruptly one evening he sprang to his feet, dinner flying, fearing the worst. Her hand on her stomach she looked at him. Eyes like saucers.

"I felt it move."

She couldn't sleep all the sixth month. The baby moved – not enough for him to feel, try as he might, but enough to keep her visiting the loo all night and in a general state of discomfort.

The seventh month she could proudly show the world that she was with child. She wasn't fat, she was pregnant. She absolutely glowed. And got a million times more radiant when he was finally able to rest his large hand on her swollen stomach and feel the miracle inside of her.

The eighth month she was a cow. Her feet doubled in width, not that she could see them. She was hideous and she was uncomfortable. And there was nothing he could say to make her feel better.

In her ninth month she wanted nothing more than this _thing_ out of her. She just wanted it out.

* * *

_Note: I post these now because I leave in half an hour to go to my Grandmother's who lives in the middle of nowhere, Iowa - just south of where Jesus lost his sandals, I have no idea if I will have internet or not, so when I fall of of the face of the internet you know where to send the search party. _


	81. 79 Year

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – Anne of Cleves

* * *

Prompt #79: Year

From below her the English Court sang to the days of auld lang syne as muskets fired and the sky glowed with fireworks. Below her the English court welcomed the New Year with kisses and with wine. A year. Not even. She had been Queen of England for a year. But as the English Court rang in the New Year they rang in a new Queen as well. _Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?_ Anne curled in bed as the chimes struck 12:01.

Happy New Year.

* * *

_Note: I know the timeline is way off but that is the beauty of fanfiction, and I thought the symbolism was worth of the fudge. I also know that the song 'Auld Lang Syne' is circa 1788 but what screams New Year's Eve more than it? Other than no one coming to your birthday party because they are spending time with family._


	82. 80 Snow

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Eustace Chapuys/ Margaret More Roper

* * *

Prompt #80: Snow

Splat! A cold, wet ball of snow hit its mark, the direct center of the back of his head. Surprised he whipped around. Margaret smiled coyly, giving a small wave with a wet hand.

"You!" he exclaimed scrambling for a snowball for retaliation. She hit him again when he bent. His throw missed. She lobbed another. He ducked and rushed her, sweeping her off her feet. He swung her high in the air, shrieks filling the evening sky.

"Eustace! Put me down!" he headed for a drift. "_Not there!_" she held on tight as he dropped her. They both fell laughing into the drift.

* * *

_Note: I have returned from the sticks! My Grandmother bought a new house so I was helping move 35 years worth of crap, I ended up digging through a mass grave of baby dolls *shutter*, but on the upside, I did find Jesus (not his sandals though). He was in the Garage._


	83. 81 Thunder

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Wolsey/ Joan Larke  
Note: This was written in England during a ten day family vacation in the summer of 2009. _Another personal Favorite._  


* * *

Prompt #81: Thunder

It was not the window rattling thunder that had Thomas Wolsey sitting up in bed. Storms like this were not terribly common but he had seen his fair share in his years. No, it was not the flash of lightning and deep boom of thunder that had him suddenly awake. It was the nearly inaudible sound of bare feet on wood floor. The shrill creek of hinges as the heavy door to his bed chamber opened.

A round, pale face shone like the moon in the gap of the door.

"Daddy?" her voice shook like the window panes, the cause of the tremble was likely the same.

"Dot?" he asked, his little girl entered the room fully, her thin arms wrapped around herself, stuffed rabbit tucked into the crook of one arm. Her tawny braids drooped as she shook. "Dot come here." He said waving his child into his room. Joan sat up as well, her husband's movement waking her.

"What's the matter love?" she asked. Another fork of lightning, another crash of thunder.

"Why… why is thunder so scary?" she asked, the words barely passing her trembling lips, her face grew even more drawn. He wanted to laugh – of all the things in this world to be afraid of the weather was the last on his list. And yet, to his daughter it was no laughing matter, so he held his tongue and patted the space between himself and Joan.

"Sleep with us and I promise to let nothing harm you." Dorothy didn't need to be told twice, she climbed over him, bony knee to his thigh and was settled under the covers in a flash. He looked over her to Joan. He smiled; she returned the sentiment sleepily and settled back into bed. He did the same, his shoulder now Dorothy's pillow, his chest Bunny's resting place. He kissed the top of her light brown hair and tucked a lock behind her pixie ear.

"You know," he said softly, "Your brother is not afraid." Another bone rattling clap.

"Mommy!"


	84. 82 Lightning

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas More/ Katherine of Aragon

* * *

Prompt #82: Lightning

Their lips met, drawn together by this force "attraction" physicists had yet to quantify. The second her full, smooth lips met his thin, slightly chapped ones. Lightning struck and everything changed. It was the step, that first step that had halted the dance for so long. They sprang apart, shocked by the electricity between them. Their electrifying kiss.

"Katherine, I-" Thomas began. He was tingling all over.

"No Thomas, Don't. Don't say it." she was tingling too, not wanting his apology to ruin the buzz. She was grounded, but he was live. Lightning struck twice when he kissed her again.


	85. 83 Rain

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas More/ Katherine of Aragon

* * *

Prompt #83: Rain

Tears of a thousand angels poured from the sky as the Queen Katherine was forced from her home, her rightful place, parasol doing nothing to keep her dry as she alighted to her carriage. But she remained strong, her head high, regal face betraying nothing but a slight distain for the English weather. It was so befitting, the gloom that was around them, the nonparallel beauty of the sun was leaving the court forever.

Crowds lined the street, caps doffed, cries of 'Long Live the Queen' ringing through the air as Thomas More reverently handed the Queen of Hearts into her coach. She squeezed his hand as she took her seat, to him her eyes betraying her anguish.

"Thank you Thomas." She said softly, "I shall-"

"Don't say it." He said, slightly horse, his emotions taking over his usually balanced mind, "This is not Good Bye but a temporary farewell." A single tear made tracks down her pale cheek.

He stood, watching the carriage roll away, taking her out of his life, a life that had been worth living only moments before. Rain beat down like the tears he would shed.


	86. 84 Storm

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Henry Tudor/ Anne Boleyn (Implied) _Another least favorite._  


* * *

Prompt #84: Storm

Henry leaned back against the ornate headboard golden brooch between his thumb and forefinger. A woman on a ship. A diamond. From Anne.

A ship. Safety. The woman. His Anne. The diamond? Her heart – rare beautiful, sought above all things. She was saying yes. Let the winds of the nay say-er blow, he would weather the storm if it meant he could have her. He brought the pin to his lips in a kiss. She loved him. She said yes.

* * *

_Note: I'm not a fan of this piece, but I'm not going to let that keep me down, I finally finished typing up my last prompt! Oddments is complete! *Victory Dance*. I now turn my attention to a sequel, if you got any bright ideas, please share._


	87. 85 Life

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Wolsey/ Joan Larke

* * *

Prompt #85: Life

The blade was cold against his hot neck and he felt it pierce the skin, the memory of his father's butcher's shop guiding his hand. The sword of time pierced his skin, it didn't hurt when it began, but as it worked its way on in, the pain grows stronger...it was blinding and soon he felt the blood leave his body, the lights dimming as he sunk to the floor going out like the rat the rich men said he was. Suicide was not painless. His life passed before his eyes, he'd thought the notion so trite but now it was all true.

As a child on the farm he was warned of the wiles of the city, but oh how he wanted to go. To taste a life beyond his means. And then his father fell at the battle of Bosworth, his dying wish to see his son in the church, the best place a man could see his child. And what could he do? Thomas made the church his bride. He had no interest in Theology, his passions lay in architecture and politics, but his father had been so moved by the idea of his dear son a clergyman that he could not go against those wishes.

After seminary he found himself in positions that could allow leisures. His hobbies and passions were, compared to some, quite tame. Some even encouraged them. He was blessed with patrons and 'friends' who sent maids to attend his every need. And in his youth he enjoyed them. A hobby of woman took a place amongst his leisure activities.

And then he met her. Joan Larke. His Joan, His Angel, his only true passion, only love. His devotion to her was unfathomable to the lay. And the feeling remained to this day, despite all the years have brought, especially of late.

The memory of her beauty, when he first saw her working in her Father's Inn those thirty some years ago floated through his mind, it turned to her beauty when she said that she would follow him to the ends of the earth so long as he loved her. He promised to love her for all eternity. Death could not stop him, stop his love.

His memories turned to the day she told him she carried his child, the glow maternity brought. He discovered it was possible to love her more, and the adoration grew, despite the late night cravings, the freezing temperature she kept their bedchambers as the baby made her burn. Her pain had been his pain as she brought their daughter and son into the world. Even the request of winter oranges did not cause his fidelity to falter. If he had served God half as well as he loved Joan he would not have forsaken him in his grey hairs. The memories of Baptizing his children with his own hand flowed into the memories of blessing their unions, his Grandchildren leaning of God and of love with him. His life was complete when he was with his family.

His life was over. It was over before the stroke of the dagger, it was over as his Joan fell to her knees, the last time, he knew, that they would see each other. He was bound for hell; she was one of God's own Angels, only his for the briefest of moments. The pain he caused her in that moment was a million times more excruciating as his final breaths. He could not force her to withstand a public execution. He would rather take his own life than force her to watch it taken from him. And so he laid down and died, "JOAN, JOAN" ringing in his head and his heart. Her name the last thing to pass through his thin lips like a prayer.

* * *

_Note: 666 words - yeah baby! Sorry, it made me happy. Also I know Wolsey died of winter and old age, and I hated that they had him slit his throat but I couldn't shake "Suicide is Painless" a la MASH and so I kept the Tudors death. And River Rose 19, I'm so glad you took the time to message me, and I love the idea! I agree the taking down of Elizabeth's hair does seem to be very symbolic of Cromwell, I will definitely work the scene in. It's great you like he and Elizabeth together. If any one else wants to see something I've only written like six of (hopefully) 150 vignettes so suggest away!_


	88. 86 Triumph

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – Fatherly! Thomas Cromwell

* * *

Prompt #86: Triumphant

"Check." Thomas' eyes snapped from his son, a fast growing thirteen, to the board. Indeed, the white pieces had his black king surrounded. There was nothing he could do. With long, proud fingers he toppled the piece. The endgame had been complicated; Thomas had not recognized it and he knew nearly every trick, chess his game for so many years. The student had finally surpassed the master. It was a proud moment. His son, so like him, flashed Elizabeth's smile.

"That's my boy." Thomas said sincerely. "I am bested. Go tell your mother, let me salvage my pride." There was nothing to salvage, he could not be prouder, but not of himself. Gregory was going to grow to be a good man, he could feel it, he was already a good man.

And yet as he ran off triumphantly to inform his mother as to what he had achieved he was a little boy. His little boy. Where had the time gone?

* * *

_I spent my first day of not scrambling to get something ready for this drawing and playing around with 'picnik' on flikr. I added two drawings as well as fixed up (sharpened/ made darker) some of my older pictures. This is called 'Laugh', there are about three versions up in my photostream from various editing attempts, here is the original www(dot)flickr(dot)com(slash)photos(slash)parrottgal(slash)3815673160(slash)in(slash)photostream(slash), a larger version of this is on my livejournal: parrottgal(dot).livejournal(dot)com(slash)23699(dot)html. I warn you it's not 'work friendly'. The second is the same general pose since I was using the same outline and picture reference but Elizabeth is wearing a dress, the color is different as well, parrottgal(dot)(slash)23886(dot)html or www(dot)flickr(dot)com(slash)photos(slash)parrottgal(slash)3814862979(slash)in(slash)photostream(slash)_


	89. 87 Journey

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas More/ Katherine of Aragon

* * *

Prompt #87: Journey

"Cardinal Compeggio has this day arrived at Court." Thomas said breaking the amicable silence of the past half hour. Katherine's summer sky eyes did not flicker from the hypnosis of the fire but she acknowledged his words.

"Lady Elizabeth has informed me, the trial shall convene once he is settled." Her voice was soft, a thread of melancholy woven into her accent – it was an accessory her words had long been wearing.

"The trial shall be at Blackfriars, in a week's time if I had to venture a guess." Katherine nods.

"I will be ready." She says with the determination of an Amazon. But no matter the braveness of her mask he worries, she is glass inside.

"Truly Katherine? My Lady, lies and slander shall pour like poisoned wine to stain your good name. Your honor will be besmirched." She slowly turns from the fire to her oldest, dearest friend. Her blue eyes fall upon him sadly. Yet despite the anguish she keeps bottled inside her soul is steel sheathed in precious satin. Thomas wanted nothing more than to take her away keep pain from ever touching her again.

"I understand Thomas, but I have truth and am right. I also have you by my side; I can climb any mountain with you."

"I am with you every step of the way, My Lady." How can he tell her he desired to walk a different path?


	90. 88 Distance

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing. I am also not a singer, the song 'Far from the Home I Love' is from Fiddler on the Roof – Best three hours of your life ever.  
Pairing: Eustace Chapuys/ Margaret More Roper

* * *

Prompt #88: Distance

"Spain?" Margaret warbled, fair skin paling, breath catching in her throat.

"Sí, mi amour," Eustace said softly setting aside the Emperor's urgent request, the letter calling him back, the letter responsible for the tears welling in his wife's eyes, tearing at his heartstrings, "It cannot be helped. I must go."

"Am I to go with you?" His large Spanish brown hand cupped her soft English cheek, thumb gliding over the high bone wiping away her tears.

"I could not ask that of you Margaret, your home is here." She placed a small hand on his, her blue eyes meeting brown. _How can I hope to make you understand why I do, what I do. Why I must travel to a distant land, Far from the home I love?_

"You are not asking me, I am asking you." _Who could see that a man would come who would change the shapes of my dreams? _"I want to go."_ Who could imagine I'd be wand'ring so far from the home I love?_

_Yet, there with my love, I'm home._


	91. 89 Bittersweet

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – Anne Boleyn  
Note: This was written in England during a ten day family vacation in the summer of 2009.

* * *

Prompt #89: Bittersweet

They say childbirth is beautiful. Anne wouldn't know. She knew that it was painful, she knew that it was long and she knew that holding her darling, health _Elizabeth _was the saddest, most precious moment in her life.

She had done it, survived to deliver a healthy child, the King's healthy child. She already had a full head of Henry's thick red hair.

Beautiful, _almost_ perfect. Female. Her greatest flaw. A disappointment before she could walk.

Anne wept. She wept bitterly.

O her sweet child. O her beautiful daughter.

O her bitter failure.


	92. 90 Memory

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell

* * *

Prompt #90: Memory

"I seem to remember someone climbing through my bedroom window – on more than one occasion – whilst we were courting." Elizabeth Cromwell pointed out to her husband. He was in a flap over their son, Gregory, and is perceived imprudence over a girl, Elizabeth Seymour. How quickly he'd forgotten his own salad days. Her words gave him pause.

"I offered you acts of knightly adventure and heroism." He said defensively, Elizabeth simply laughed and kissed his firm cheek.

"Only because the poetry you offered was awful."

_Elizabeth Wyckes woke with a start and no idea why. Looking up at her dark ceiling she knew it had nothing to do with over sleeping._

_And then she heard it, what had rudely pulled her from her delicious dream. It was the sound of soft cursing and rustling ivy and it came from under her window. Someone was trying to get in. Fear gripped her but it was soon replaced by a perhaps foolish anger. Elizabeth Wyckes would _not_ just lay there and wait to get raped or robbed. Adrenaline coursed through her veins as she crept from bed. Staying out of the line of windows she approached her sewing table, shears shining in the moonlight._

_Taking them firmly in hand she retraced her steps and then slipped to the window, raising the scissors dagger above her head she threw open the panes and… was met by Thomas Cromwell._

"Shit!"_ she exclaimed in shock dropping her weapon. Thomas Cromwell, boy from her youth, turned fancy pants lawyer, was hanging rather awkwardly, on the ivy, one hand clinging to her sill with white knuckles._ "Thomas?" _she hissed, her eyes were deceiving her._

"_Elizabeth," he grunted, hand sliding on the sill, "A little help here." She was half tempted to help him right off the side of her house. But she didn't, instead she took his forearm, he pushed, she pulled and eventually he landed - head first, in her bedroom._

"_Ow." He groaned, holding his head._

"_I could have killed you!" Elizabeth hissed, ignoring his pain, "What are you doing here?" He stood, long black coat on over his night shirt, his large feet in dark boots, mud on his knees as if he'd snuck out of his house._

"_I had to see you again." He said. The impropriety of it was overwhelming. She wore nothing but a long white gown, inadequate at concealing anything, there was a bed only paces away from them both._

"This could not have waited until morning?!"

"_No." he whispered earnestly, his eyes holding hers and his hands reached out and took her upper arms. "I could not sleep; I could not but think of you. Elizabeth, I love you."_

"_Love me? Thomas, you do not know me!" she protested._

"_We grew up together, do you not remember? You must, you remembered when I hid under your bed clearly enough." It was the first thing she asked of him when they were reunited and it was that one question, combined with that mischievously beautiful look in her eye that had him driven to forget all sense._

"_I was eight!"_

"_So?"_

"_Thomas-" she stopped, from down the hall she heard the footfall of her father. Though they were whispering they were not quiet enough. "Under the bed." She whispered in a rush, pushing him towards her mussed bed._

"_Again?"_

"Do you want to die?" _she snapped_.

_Thomas was barely out of site, no longer eight, her bed was suddenly more difficult to get under, when Elizabeth's father, John Wyckes, came through her door._

"_Daughter." He said firm but sleepy, dressed in a robe he made for himself. "What is the noise I heard?"_

"_Nothing, father," She squeaked, looking to his large bare feet. "Just a dream." Her father looked to her messy bed, blankets hanging oddly low at one side._

"_And the window open?" he asked._

"_I thought some fresh air would calm my nerves. I am sorry for waking you father."_

"_Go to sleep Elizabeth," John said eying the shears on the floor, "may it be restful." _

"_Thank you father, good night."_

_Once her father's heavy footfall retreated Elizabeth helped Cromwell from his hiding place, once again under her bed._

"_You fool! He would've _killed you_ had he found you!"_

"_But he did not. And even if he did, I would have died happy for I would've seen you one last time." Elizabeth stared at him, this insane idiot masquerading as Thomas Cromwell._

"_You must go now." She told him firmly shoving his lean body towards her window. He took a hold of his ivy ladder and paused, turning to her._

"_I will visit you every day until you are my wife." And with a kiss he was gone.

* * *

_

_Note: If the Indiana Jones Suite is not going through your head I don't know what is, ;)._


	93. 91 Nightmare

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas More/ Katherine of Aragon  
Note: This was written in England during a ten day family vacation in the summer of 2009.

* * *

Prompt #91: Nightmare

"_Mary? Mary?" Katherine called out, frantically, blindly reaching out for her daughter who wasn't there. Her face was drawn, sallow and damp, her hair clinging to it, bringing out the dark circles under her eyes and the hollow of her cheeks. From the other side of a thin screen her ladies wept, they knew their Queen's time was short. She was in her finest gown; last rites had been given that evening. It was now just a matter of keeping the great woman comfortable. Her final letters had been written, final good byes had been made and eventually her final words were spoken…_

"_Mary… Mary… Mary?"_

Thomas More shot upright in bed, a cry of 'No!' about to cross his lips when he realized he was in his own bedchamber, not another.

"Husband?" a sleepy voice asked in confusion. "What is the matter?" Thomas looked down into the bleary eyes of… Katherine. She was not dead – not even dying. Although she was dressed in the same beautiful nightgown, it fit her curves nicely; it did not hang off of her as it had in his dream. She was by his side, where she belonged, not mistreated, not lonely. She was loved and cherished – as she should be. He sighed, over came by relief.

"Nothing wife – love, just a nightmare. Go back to sleep."


	94. 92 Respect

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell  
Note: This was written in England during a ten day family vacation in the summer of 2009.

* * *

Prompt #92: Respect

"He could not be more condescending if he had patted me on the head and told me to run along while the big boys worked!" Elizabeth fumed yanking her hairbrush through her curls with such force Thomas feared she'd take a lock with it. "He dismissed my ideas and flat out laughed at his wife!" she continued. The gross sound of comb ripping through a knot prompting Cromwell take control of the brush. She relaxed under his hands as they skillfully smoothed her curls, although she was not pacified; her blue eyes flashed as they met his in the mirror.

"They were valid ideas Thomas, better than some of those _men_ thought of and yet _I_ am dismissed?" he would have laughed if Elizabeth had not been within striking distance. She was both beautiful and funny in a flap. Her eyes a bright, lively blue, face flushed pink, voice spirited, logic flawed.

"I'm afraid I have you spoiled, my dear, man does not have to respect his wife." She turned on the vanity stool and looked up at him challengingly.

"Any why not?! Am I not a child of God, the same as you?"

"That is true, but not everyone sees it so."

"Do you respect me Thomas?" she asked, her eyes and tone softening. He cupped her chin and looked into her eyes.

"Yes." He said sincerely. She smiled.

"I love you."


	95. 93 Ring

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None - Thomas Howard  
Note: This was written in England during a ten day family vacation in the summer of 2009.

* * *

Prompt #93: Ring

In the quiet of his library he sat, ring in hand. Staring into its facets, feeling the gold warm under his touch. In the stone he could see his father, this ring gleaming from his little finger until the day it was removed – along with his head – at the King's orders. The Duke slid the ring onto his own finger. It fit. It would stay. This ring was about choice.

He would make the right one.


	96. 94 Sea

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas More/ Katherine of Aragon

* * *

Prompt #94: Sea

Her eyes were like the sea, unfathomably deep and mysterious, her eyes held the secrets few would ever see. Color of a cloudless August beach, her skin the shade of pale sand, her eyes a clear oceanic blue. Yet like the sea a tempest raged, sorrowful to the core, tears cresting, breaking on the shore of her lashes. He folded her in his arms, his embrace the eye of the storm, a halo of calm in a deadly fray. He was the harbor for her heart; she was always safe with him. No matter how far he was always near.


	97. 95 Shore

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – Katherine of Aragon

* * *

Prompt #95: Shore

She felt as if she'd been thrown overboard in the middle of a storm ravaged ocean. There was nothing around her but deep dark sea, waves and currents pushing and pulling her this way and that until she wasn't sure which way was up or if she could keep her head about the water.  
Part of her wanted to sink into this ocean of despair, let the waves make her future. She wanted to give up.

_Give up._

Something within her rang out at those words – give up. _No_. she _did not_ "give up". She was the child of Spain. She was the Queen of England. She would not "give up".  
It did not matter how deep and wide her despair was or how strong the antagonist waves were, she would swim to shore.


	98. 96 Temptation

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing. I am also a very bad Lutheran, the Latin/ Catholic-ness of this piece is probably wrong.  
Pairing: Thomas More/ Katherine of Aragon (implied)  
_Note: I'm not happy with this, I like the concept, but I'm rubbish with TomKat, truly everything else was just a really good illusion._

* * *

Prompt #96: Temptation

"Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo." Thomas More's words came out as more of a plea than a prayer. _Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo. _Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil_._ Temptation. Temptation was everywhere as was sin and heresy, but God's grace he remained strong, but he knew if he let his mind wonder he would be weak.

Eyes like a cloudless morning sky framed by thick black lashes peered at him from a flawless ivory face. Her expression was a mix of sweet and serious, earnest concern, true devotion and unwavering loyalty, yet it was tinged with sadness. A sadness he wanted to slay like a dragon in stories of old. He wanted to take his lady in his arms and tell her all would be well. But to have her in his arms?

_Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo._

How could he be strong with that perfect dark head buried in his chest, her lush body pressed to his. The woman who'd captured his heart in his arms – the thought alone reverted his mind to a baser place. It horrified him, the sins his mind produced were too numerous to count – many of them deadly – envy, covetousness, lust. There was no blacker sinner.

_Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo._

Lead me not into temptation – I can find it myself.


	99. 97 Whisper

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Boleyn/ Katherine of Aragon_  
Note: Had they won this would be what a Boleyn/ Aragon 'Moon' prompt would look like, but they didn't win, yet I still like this piece so voila,_ _Prompt 97 it becomes._

* * *

Prompt #97: Whisper

The pale moon peered through slovenly drawn drapes, the sickly, silver crescent beams only half illuminating the room and its entwined occupants. Sweat, sex, and cherry wine hung in the air. Below him Katherine lay as fair as Artemis' charge and as beautiful and bare as Venus birthed from the sea. In moments like these, by the light of the moon, he made love. He did not ravish, he did not plunder. And in moments like this when the wine went to her head she kissed him back, she accepted his gentle caress and returned the gesture with the same near affection.

With the moon the only witness and wine to erase the memory come the sun a whisper of his darkest secret rang.

"I love you."


	100. 98 Star

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – Anne Boleyn

* * *

Prompt #98: Star

Little Anne Boleyn loved to be outside at dusk, the sun in bed for the night, but she, on very special occasions was allowed to stay up, sometimes outside. In the summer the fireflies would be as numerous as the stars in the sky. She and Mary would run and run and try to catch them all. George would smash them and make their guts glow. She did love her brother but he did know how to ruin her childhood memories. She and Mary would then run and run as he chased them around with glowing bug guts hands.

And then once they'd run around the garden a million times it seemed they would collapse on the grass and look up at the stars. Every night they would lie together and make wishes.

_Starlight, star bright, first star I see tonight, wish I may, wish I might, hear the wish I wish tonight._

_

* * *

Note: This is based on my own summer memories, does anyone know, do they catch fireflies in England or is that an Iowa thing?  
_


	101. 99 Moon

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing. Nor am I the Bard, if it's eloquent it ain't mine.  
Pairing: Henry Tudor/ Katherine of Aragon  
_Note: Brought to you by the lovely people that voted in my poll, hope I made it worth your time.

* * *

_

Prompt #99: Moon

The moon shone bright as day in her full orb and the wind played warmly across her cheek and into the trees below her. She leaned against the balcony rail drinking in the sights and sounds of the country now her home. Her kingdom, for Henry loved her. He wanted to marry her – for more than an alliance. She knew he loved her in the way Arthur never did, he told her so in every stolen touch, kiss, ballad of longing and poem of desire. Each look wanton and for her alone.

"The moon is sickly, outshine it, your beauty does," Henry's voice came to her from a mighty Poplar, straight and tall and old as time itself.

"'Enry!" Katherine gasped. In Spain no man hung from trees beside maiden's window. "Should you not be asleep?" His lengthy, lithe form leapt from tree to balcony like a bee flouted from flower to flower.

"Diana is envious of you my Goddess this night, Paris' apple belongs to you and you alone." He wove his strong fingers through her long loose locks a hair above her lips he spoke. "Sleep? When we sleep the day is over and when I am with you I never want the moment to end. I would stop the world to be with you my love." He kissed her, an introduction to passion. Her handsome, strong, healthy Henry, she flushed virgin hot at the joyous possibility of a fulfilled wedding night.

"O 'Enry, tell me I am awake, swear this is not a dream and this love is true." Katherine whispered, her love gathered her in his arms, her back to his chest so that they both smile at the stars that smiled down upon them.

"Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear-"

"O swear not by the moon! The inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circled orb, lest that thy love prove likewise variable." He looked down at her, miffed.

"What should I swear by?" She had mis-stepped. Turning in his embrace she cupped his chiseled cheek.

"Do not sear at all; or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, which is the God of my idolatry, and I'll believe thee." He smiled and kissed her.

"I swear by myself to thee alone I shall be true."

* * *

_Note II: Even the illiterate knows this is the balcony scene from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, and yet I thought it worked. If only she knew the moon was more true._


	102. 100 End

Oddments

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Paring: None – The League of Extraordinary Gentlewoman  
_Note: This is coming at you LIVE from my dorm in Iowa City! As summer ends so too does this little journey..._

* * *

Prompt #100: End

Once Upon a Time, not so long ago in this very place there lived a League of Extraordinary Gentlewomen. These women ruled the world through the thin façades of their powerful spouses. They were the wives of Kings, of lay and lawmen, of Cardinals. They had it all. Then the sky began to fall.

The first to meet her end was Katherine, Daughter of Spain, Queen of England. Cast aside she was in the fall of her life, left to die alone, dishonored, disrespected, unloved. Buried and mourned as a 'beloved sister' instead of the Queen that she was.

Joan was next taken, the Cardinal's wife, who at his passing was left with only the memories of a life of love, her husband destroyed by the King, first by his bidding and then by his hand. When they ripped him from her arms to take him away on charges unfounded they ripped out her heart and she followed her mate to the grave, he not yet cold when she joined him in eternal slumber.

The Queen of France died of a broken heart, her husband taking one too many mistresses and she birthing one baby too late in life.

Alice suffered the pain of her husband's public execution, a martyr to his conscious and the King's pride. He was faithful to the end, blind to her pain. A Bill of Attainder taking away what she had left she lives what is left of her days on the kindness of her children.

Isabella lives on in Spain, she is the last for this day Elizabeth took the block with her beloved Cromwell, her soul only whole while he is alive.

The ax rises. The ax falls. It is the end.

* * *

_Note II: What a note to end on eh?_


	103. End Notes

Here we are, can you believe it? You thought this thing would never end. I want to sincerely thank you all for reading this far, your reviews and PMs made every day a little brighter and with all the love you gave me I feel as if I swallowed a kitty – that warm and fuzzy inside. I would like to build a small alter in thanks and praise to my reviewers, cocorocks, River Rose 19, rocks – my – socks, katherineofaragonfan, AestheticNarcissist, theothertudorgirl, oneadmmlife, WhoIsShe-CA, omgcoaistotallylikeawesome, Jnstar86, BoleynofAragon21, Phenya., LadyJax999, and miruvor, as well as Elinor Potter, my Spanish Savior, Boleyn Girl 13, my ranting partner and email buddy, Tilts at Windmills, another email buddy and fellow Cromwell lover, and Doctor Madwoman, a horrible, horrible influence on me XD

I am working on Oddments II as we speak (okay, you read) but with school starting it may take me awhile, take advantage of this lag, make a request, I'll have to have something to do instead of homework (kidding…).

If you'd like to see some really horrible artwork look no farther than:

parrottgal livejournal com/24834 html

parrottgal livejournal com/24619 html

parrottgal livejournal com/24570 html

parrottgal livejournal com/23886 html

parrottgal livejournal com/23469 html

parrottgal livejournal com/21705 html

parrottgal livejournal com/20147 html

OR

www flickr com/photos/parrottgal/sets/72157621897761213/

Again, thank you so much, I love you all!

~Cait aka TrivialQueen


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